


DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?

by babywereperfect



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst, Daddy Issues, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Violence, Harry and Zayn are sad but they're sad together!, Hunter Zayn, I CANNOT BELIEVE I AM TAGGING A FIC AS GUN VIOLENCE, Like it's fantasy violence but just in case, M/M, Mommy Issues, Witchrry, and
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 77,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28658115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babywereperfect/pseuds/babywereperfect
Summary: Harry's a witch, Zayn's a witch hunter, can I make it any more obvious?This is a completed fic (80k words) posted by chapter.Fic trailer
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Comments: 42
Kudos: 69





	1. crisp trepidation, i’ll try to shake this soon

Zayn had hoped that when this day finally came, he’d feel excited.

His parents certainly do. Trisha’s even sporting a celebratory red lipstick today, in place of the natural pink she usually wears. Not that they’re going anywhere, not together at least. But growing up in a house full of girls has taught Zayn that there are some occasions that call for a red lip. It can make someone feel prettier, soften a blow, mask fear.

“You’ve got everything?” Yaser asks, with a firm hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “Your wallet, your suitcase, your rev–”

Despite the tightness in his chest, Zayn manages a weak smile. “Mum and I have already gone through the checklist. Do you really think she would let me forget anything?”

The three of them have been stood just inside the front door for several minutes, reluctant to open it. Trisha and Yaser fall silent, gazing upon Zayn for the last time in what they know may be weeks. Or, in the absolute worst case…forever. Zayn’s eyes take in everything but his parents. They flit from the art in the foyer to the spiral staircase, which leads up to the bedroom he already aches to return to. He tries not to think about how much he’ll miss his sisters’ laughs echoing through the high-ceilinged rooms. Or his dad’s smile when Trisha conjures his favourite smells in their kitchen.

“Look at me, sunshine,” Trisha says, guiding Zayn’s chin with her hand until their eyes meet. “You’ve still got six months until your birthday, and that’s much more time than you’ll need. You’ve had your training. Your hunt will go fine.”

Zayn’s lucky that his parents let him go to uni while simultaneously completing his training; few parents would allow it. That said, it’s both a blessing and a curse. Spring term has already taken up six months of his twentieth year. While he _can_ use the rest of his year if he needs to, he’ll have to start and finish his hunt before September. That is, if he wants to get back to Manchester for the second year of his English course.

“You already know who and where your target is as well,” Yaser adds. “The longest part of the hunt is usually finding a target and working out what their abilities are. You’ve already got a big head start.”

Trisha must read the lingering uncertainty in Zayn’s eyes. “You’ll become initiated before the year is up. I promise you.” Her eyes twinkle in the way only a mother’s can.

“I hope so,” Zayn answers, barely holding Trisha’s gaze. “I just don’t want to let you down.” He glances at Yaser, then at the floor. Although Yaser would never admit it, Zayn knows how much he strives to impress Trisha’s side of the family. Zayn doesn’t think he needs to work so hard, especially since his father descends from a prestigious line of Pakistani hunters.

“If you’re really my son, you won’t disappoint us,” Yaser says, pulling Zayn into a bear hug. His uncertainty washes away momentarily, replaced by his father’s cologne and the scratchy fibres from his jumper.

“Love you, Dad,” he mumbles into Yaser’s chest. “I’ve got to go now though. James is already waiting outside. Zayn reluctantly disentangles himself from the hug.

As he turns to open the front door, Zayn’s greeted by a mock gasp from his mother. She looks cartoonishly horrified when he turns back to face her.

“No hug for your mum, then?”

“Mum…” Zayn groans. “We’ve already hugged near fifty times today. If I let you hug me again, you’re never going to let me out the door.”

Trisha _tsk_ s and shakes her head, enveloping him with laughter and the smell of her perfume. He rolls his eyes at his father over Trisha’s shoulder in an unsuccessful attempt to get rid of the tear in his left eye. Yaser pretends not to notice when it splashes onto his cheek. Zayn wonders if he starts wailing, right here, whether his parents would let him stay home.

James, the Maliks’ driver, takes Zayn’s suitcase as soon as he opens the front door. Zayn walks to the car, watching James stow the suitcase in the boot of his parents’ black Range Rover. His parents are probably crying and holding each other, waiting for him to turn around so they can wave. For his own sanity, he doesn’t look back until he’s already behind the tinted car windows.

He was right; although his parents can’t see him, they’re waving madly. Zayn waves back, craning his neck until his beautiful house outside Bradford is out of sight. He’s glad that James reads the room and doesn’t say a word until he’s unloaded Zayn’s things at the train station.

“Good luck, sir,” James says, bowing his head.

Zayn sighs. He’s lost count of how many times he’s asked James, who’s only a couple years older than him, to stop calling him “sir.” But it’s Zayn’s parents who pay James, not Zayn. And they want James to call him sir.

“Thanks man,” Zayn says, checking whether he has his most important things: his wallet, his mobile, his sketchbook, and his beautifully engraved silver revolver. When it’s all accounted for, for the tenth time, Zayn nods at James, signalling that he’s okay to leave.

Zayn doesn’t immediately turn towards the station doors. Instead, he opts to watch the Range Rover grow smaller and smaller as it exits the drop-off area.

 _This is it_ , he thinks, trying to relax the muscles in his shoulders. _I’m alone._

\--

The sun beats down over the cottage like a gift from the heavens – warm on the skin, but not hot enough to cause a sweat. The woods bordering the property are uncharacteristically quiet today, despite being a popular attraction for holidaymakers. There’s no one around, save for two ponies grazing along the entrance to the wood and an invisible flock of birds calling back and forth from the treetops. The bay pony snorts at his chestnut neighbour, who responds by nipping at the bay’s leg. Aside from that, everything is still.

For a moment.

Seemingly unprovoked, the bay’s head shoots up, ears swivelling. The chestnut pony is too focused on his meal to pay attention at first. Yet soon he too is alarmed, shifting his weight from hoof to hoof and pawing at the ground. Both ponies’ ears flick towards the edge of the forest, where the density of trees quickly obscures sight.

Suddenly there’s a sharp crack, as if someone’s tried not to step on a stick but has broken it anyway, and the bay spooks. The air is heavy with motion. Hooves strike the ground, a shadow emerges from the trees, a flash of sunlight glints off metal–

Harry wakes with a start for the third time in a month. He's drenched in sweat yet again, thanks to a lethal combination of blind panic and summer heat.

He doesn’t know what could be haunting him like this, here in the New Forest. All the people he's encountered thus far have been kind, if not a little snobby. Still, he knows what this reoccurring dream is, and he’s not going to ignore a vision.

The morning light trickling in through the window and the sweat drying on Harry’s chest make his top sheet feel too hot, so he flips it off. He sits up and yawns, stretching first his back, then reaching his ringed fingers all the way down to his toes. When he cranes his neck to see out the window, it’s reassuring that the ponies from his dream aren’t actually there. They never are, but it’s reassuring, nonetheless.

Harry lets his eyelids flutter shut again, trying to focus his inner sight on the contents of the vision. He poses all the usual questions: _What’s in the forest? Will it hurt me? How far in the future might this happen?_ He comes up empty, just as he had every other time he’d woken up like this.

Well, not entirely empty. He has the feeling that something’s there yet inaccessible, the diviner’s version of having a word on the tip of his tongue. Harry sighs. It’s frustrating, but he’s come to expect the limitations of his underdeveloped abilities by now. The one reassurance his metaphorical blindness provides is that he’s not in immediate danger. If the contents of the vision were going to play out today, he’s sure he’d be able to see _something_.

He hops out of bed and makes his way into the cosy white kitchen barefoot, where he flings open the cabinets. From the shelf that houses kitchen supplies, Harry grabs a bottle of olive oil, a small bowl, and a wine glass. From the counter, he chooses a bottle of red. He considers the items he’s collected for a second, absent-mindedly picking at one of his purple-painted fingernails, before dashing to his bedroom to collect the incense and lighter he’s forgotten. Satisfied, he carries his ingredients out the side door, nearly dropping the wine glass he's holding between his teeth.

Harry continues past the patio and locates a nice grassy spot in the garden, midway between the cottage and the trees bordering the property. He lays everything out in front of him and takes a moment to think about how grateful he is that he found this place. It’s got everything he needs, really. It’s got a roof over his head, a nice big garden with several beautiful flowerbeds, and privacy, given that the houses here are so spaced out. The one thing the cottage _doesn’t_ have is someone to talk to. But that’s something he’s learning to live with.

Harry lights his favourite sandalwood incense and watches the smoke curl up towards the sky. He closes his eyes, feeling the warm sun press on his eyelids as a breeze ruffles his shoulder-length hair, and threads his fingers through the lush grass. He's aware of it brushing against his thighs where he sits cross-legged, meditating until the earth’s energy sparks at his fingertips. He stays there, unmoving, for longer than is strictly necessary. When Harry eventually opens his eyes, he feels so centred that it takes a minute to remember why he’s casting a protection spell in the first place.

He stretches again, wincing as he feels his back crack, and pours a bit of olive oil into the bowl. He then fills the glass with red wine, all the way to the top. He selects three long blades of grass from the ground and adds them to the oil, chasing them with about half the glass of red. He swirls the mixture around with his finger, taking a sip of what’s left of the wine. He always drinks the rest when he does spells with wine; it’s an old habit that used to drive his mum mad. It wasn’t proper, she said, but Harry kept doing it to make her laugh; he’s more than sure it doesn’t affect the spell. He grins, imagining what his neighbours’ faces would look like if they were to see him right now. He's burning incense and drinking a glass of wine at ten in the morning, wearing nothing but the boxer shorts he slept in.

Harry clears his throat, still raspy from sleep. He holds the small bowl with both hands and murmurs, “By the power of the Earth and the strength of the wine, bar all that would harm from crossing this line.” He sits still, focusing on the energy traveling through the ground. It spreads throughout his body and settles into the mixture inside the bowl. When the little potion is charged enough, he closes his eyes and returns the unused energy he borrowed back into the earth. Almost all of it, that is. He retains a little bit, seeing as he didn’t sleep well.

Once he returns inside, he sprinkles a bit of the mixture on a rag. He wipes it across the top and bottom of the cottage’s doors, as well as around the edges of each window and the perimeter of the large patio. As he attempts to manoeuvre the excess liquid into a small vial, he hopes it’ll be enough.

\--

Zayn sighs and leans his head back against the not-quite-comfortable first-class headrest. He always feels anxious when he travels. He rushes around packing all morning, just to wait around for the plane or train or whatever it is, so that he can board and sit some more. Once he’s settled, he spends the whole time avoiding eye contact with his neighbours, lest a stranger think he's up for a chat. He wishes that James could have taken him the whole way, but he felt it was important to show his parents that he could make the journey on his own.

Zayn zones out, hardly even noticing the fields and forests whizzing by outside. He can’t believe that he, of all people, is leaving the city he loves to go hang around a bunch of trees and lakes by himself.

He pulls out his mobile and taps play on Frank Ocean’s _Channel Orange_ for what feels like the thirtieth time today. It’s always his first line of defence against that uncomfortable fluttering feeling in his stomach, but it's not working today. Zayn opens the text message app before he remembers he’s technically not allowed to speak to anyone from home after he’s started his hunt, according to the Council’s rules. His thumb hovers over Doniya’s name for a second before navigating away. Zayn knows no one in his family is draconian enough to hold it against him if he calls a couple times. However, messaging his older sister for advice within twenty-four hours of leaving would be frowned upon. Especially since his parents sit on the Council themselves.

For the second time that day, Zayn recognizes that he’s pretty lucky, all pessimism aside. Despite the Maliks being a very old, very well-known family, they’re lenient about a lot of things compared to other hunting families in the Order. And, Zayn thinks as he scuffs the heel of his boot against the Versace carry-on under his seat, he doesn’t have to worry about money while he’s away. He just wishes the Council as a whole were more lenient about a couple things.

The traditional initiation hunt itself, for one.

Zayn’s never questioned the Council’s position, or his family’s, against witches. It’s clear that their abilities are dangerous, as almost all the old witching families are rich, famous, politically powerful, or some combination of the three. He’s known from childhood what they can do. Some witches can read minds, divine the future, or take physical control over the bodies of the weak-minded. Others have cultivated talents in seemingly benign arts, such as human transformation or animal communication. Yet even those can be twisted for selfish gain. It makes Zayn ill to think about it. Those abuses of power are why families like the Maliks, hunting families, are sworn to keep witches in check for the greater good.

In other words, they kill witches.

Hunting is necessary, Zayn knows that. If witches could use their magic freely without the constant fear of being hunted, they could overturn entire governments. They could quite literally rule the world, as much as that sounds like a comic book plot.

Zayn just wishes it wasn’t necessary for _him_ to hunt. He’s gone through his training, sure, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not cut out for it. His sisters have always teased him for being too soft, for wearing his heart on his sleeve. On the one hand, Zayn has a fierce desire to protect his family, his country, his _world_ , and make his family proud. On the other hand, when he finds a spider in his bedroom, he traps it and takes it outside because he can’t bring himself to step on it. In this, his twentieth year, Zayn feels caught between two essential parts of himself.

Zayn knows that the world wouldn’t come to a halt if he, one individual hunter, didn’t complete this hunt. Since most witching families have kept their bloodlines free of non-witch relatives, their numbers have decreased over time. A world that was once full of witches has become distinctly less magical, save for a number of old families in each country. Similarly, it would be difficult for a hunter to reveal a secret world full of witchcraft and murder to a love interest on the outside. Thus, hunters keep to their own small communities as well. The reduced size of both groups allows them to live in relative secrecy, without the knowledge of the general public. This works to everyone’s advantage; witches can continue their unscrupulous undertakings while hunters can get away with murder keeping them in check.

Zayn’s toyed with the idea of trying to get out of his first hunt a million times. He’s even practiced a speech in the mirror, trying to get his hands to stop shaking as he explains to his imaginary parents that one person opting out wouldn’t have a huge impact. Anyway, people _die_ on hunts, and they wouldn’t want to put their only son in danger, would they?

Yet each of the million times he’s given that speech, he’s reached the same conclusion: getting out of it is simply not an option.

While hunters are free to hunt any time they wish, (and some do, especially those without families to look after), many nowadays only complete the traditional initiation. That means that while the first hunt has been an important coming-of-age moment for as long as hunters have existed, it’s taken on an incredible level of cultural importance in the past century. In fact, it’s the single requirement for full initiation into the Order. The Council that presides in the UK is strict. If Zayn relinquished his identity as a hunter, he would be cast out of the Order while simultaneously jeopardizing his family’s position. He’d be made an example for anyone else feeling too faint of heart for the job. He could never bring that shame upon his parents, never force them to leave their culture and family. Not when all they’ve ever done is love and support him.

Zayn has spent many restless nights over the past couple years reminding himself that to truly earn his spot in his family, to really cement his identity as a Malik, he has to hunt a witch before his twentieth birthday. End of story. Full stop.

Zayn opens the Photos app on his mobile, still wishing he had someone from home to talk to. He thumbs through his album of family photos, past ones of him with Doniya, Waliyha, and Safaa on his most recent birthday, past pictures of him and his best mate Liam at the pub, past pictures his mum had scanned and uploaded on Facebook of the two of them from when Zayn was small. He comes to rest on an old picture of his father and recalls the oft-told tale of Yaser’s first hunt. How at nineteen he took down one of the most infamous witches in the UK, a mind reader, with a single bullet. He can picture his dad telling the story again now, the way he swells with pride as he emphasizes the witch’s hand in government corruption. Yaser had had to exert an incredible amount of control over his own thoughts so as not to give himself away before the kill.

Zayn becomes aware that he’s not alone with his thoughts anymore and stares blankly at the older, uniformed man standing over him. When he realizes, after a second too long, that the man’s said something, he pulls out an earbud.

“Ticket please,” the man repeats.

Zayn’s ears grow hot as he shoves his hands into the various pockets in his jeans, scrambling to find his ticket. Upon finding it, he presents it wordlessly.

“Going south! What for?”

“Staying in the New Forest,” Zayn mumbles.

“Ahh, the Forest? Off for a summer holiday?” the man asks.

“Something like that,” Zayn says flatly, making no effort to indicate that he’s interested in making conversation.

The man unfortunately takes no notice and smiles good-naturedly. Before Zayn can reinsert his earbud, the man is off, talking a mile a minute. He babbles on about the time he stayed in the Forest with his wife three years ago, how incredible the wildlife is, and all the places Zayn needs to visit. Zayn sighs, pauses his music, and resigns himself to nodding politely until it’s over.

\--

Harry settles into the driver’s seat of his old red Mustang convertible. He takes a moment to consider how nice the day is before he turns the key and brings the engine sputtering to life. As the car crunches off the gravel, he marvels at the intense greenness of the place; while he lacks social connections out here, the gorgeous scenery almost fills the deep void in his chest.

The New Forest is an appropriately magical place for a witch. Although it’s now largely populated by wealthy old English families and the holidaymakers who rent from them, the forest has a history full of myths. Old tales abound of fairies, village witches, and other magical happenings. Harry believes there’s truth in almost all of the stories, except perhaps the one in which the family on holiday drove past a mist-covered lake and saw a sword in a stone protruding from the water. Harry very much doubts that the legendary sword of King Arthur would present itself to a random family on a joyride. However, he can definitely feel the presence of fairies when he’s deep in the forest collecting ingredients for a spell. And the way that livestock are allowed to roam the Forest freely feels so quaint and wonderfully old-fashioned, even if it has nothing to do with magic.

Harry turns onto the road and presses play where he left off on the Joni Mitchell album in the tape deck. He pays more attention than he should to the trees and fields whizzing past on either side of him. He loves exploring all the footpaths outside the village proper, but sometimes he likes driving around in his beat-up old car just as much. Top down, wind in his hair, sun kissing the back of his neck.

It’s a short drive once he reaches the centre of the tiny village. Harry sings along to “California” under his breath as he manoeuvres the giant vintage car into a tiny parking space behind the bakery. He’s still not quite used to the driver’s seat being on the wrong side, but he’s extra careful as he can’t afford to put another dent in it. Even though it’s sort of unreliable and the paint lacks the original lustre it must have had, Harry still thinks he looks pretty cool driving a Mustang. That was the one windfall he had this spring, finding it with a “FOR SALE” sign in the front garden of an older couple’s place. Back then, he’d just arrived and was still using his bicycle to get around. The elderly man, who’d collected and worked on old cars when he was younger, wanted to get rid of the Mustang for cheap. Harry was happy to oblige.

The smell of fresh bread makes Harry’s stomach rumble well before he pushes open the door of the bakery. It stands out quite a bit from the rest of the Tudor buildings on the high street (if it can even be called that, it’s so small), with its blue-and-white striped awning and cutesy sandwich board outside. The bell over the door tinkles as he pushes it open. Harry’s enveloped by the calming baby blue interior and the excited chatter of children begging their parents for sweets.

“Alright Ni?” Harry calls across the line of customers. He pulls his sugary pink apron from its hook by the door and tying it around himself.

“Thank god you’re here Harry, we’re swamped,” Niall answers. “I need you in the back making more of those incredible little cakes you do, and we’re almost out of scones as well…. On second thought, we need more of everything. Start making everything.”

Harry stifles a laugh at Niall’s harassed-looking expression, but immediately makes his way into the kitchen, past the customers chatting and sipping tea.

Harry spends most of his shift in a blur, humming while he bakes. He charges at least one ingredient in every biscuit, pastry, and loaf with positive energy. The chocolate chips are to encourage passion, the butter to bring prosperity, and so on. He puts the tiniest dash of cinnamon in nearly everything, even when the recipe doesn’t call for it. He thinks everyone could use a touch more love in their lives.

Harry eventually joins Niall in the front before the bakery closes at six, where smiling customers are making their way out one by one. Niall’s flitting about, collecting discarded tea pots, when he notices Harry.

“Sorry for banishing you to the back for your whole shift.” Niall smiles apologetically as he makes his way to where Harry leans against the sink behind the counter. “Katie called out this morning, and you know how I am with the actual baking part of this job.” Niall laughs, and Harry moves out of his way so he can rinse out the empty tea pots.

“No problem. The baking’s my favourite part.”

Niall ruffles his blonde hair, crosses his arms, and leans his hip against the sink as the water runs. “Everyone else’s baking tastes like rubbish compared to what you can do. I don’t know how you do it, Harry. It’s like magic.”

“Something like that,” Harry chuckles, moving to wipe down a table to hide his smile.

About a half hour later, when Niall’s counting out the till and Harry’s mopping the floor, they both groan in unison upon hearing a persistent rap at the door.

About a half hour later, when Niall’s counting the till and Harry’s mopping the floor, they hear a rap at the door. They both groan in unison.

When the knocking continues, Harry straightens and looks towards the door in irritation. His expression lightens when he recognizes the sleepy-looking boy outside in a Stone Roses t-shirt and joggers.

“Oh, it’s Lou!”

Harry makes his way over to unlock the door, only losing his balance on the wet floor once.

“Alright boys? Was beginning to think you weren’t going to let me in for a second!” Louis says, embracing Harry fiercely.

“Sorry, we thought you were one of those mums trying to break down our door for ‘ _just one more_ ’ of Harry’s fairy cakes again.” Niall rolls his eyes and locks the till.

“Again?” Louis raises his eyebrows as he plops himself down on the counter. “Don’t mind if I see what all the fuss is about, then?” Louis says, more of a statement than a question, as he plucks a cake off the tray Niall’s attempting to wrap up. “Mmmm,” he sighs, and closes his eyes. He scarfs it down in record time and rewards Harry with a thumbs up and a knowing wink.

Louis licks his fingers. “The reason I’m here isn’t to rob you of your overpriced baked goods, though.”

“Hey!” Harry protests. “Each one of them is made carefully with love.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “I can’t tell if you’re taking the piss, and that worries me.” Niall laughs as Harry opens his mouth to argue further, but Louis cuts him off before he can really get going. “Since Harry wasn’t at home, I figured he might be here. I was going to suggest going out for some food and a pint. Niall, you are cordially invited to meet us there.”

“I wouldn’t be Irish if I weren’t down for a drink.” Niall smiles over his shoulder as he washes his hands, finally done with the cleaning.

“I’ll come,” Harry says with a devious smile, “but only if Louis picks up my tab. Sorry Niall, but your aunt doesn’t pay _that_ well.”

Niall shrugs and leans back against the counter, as if to say, _no offense taken_. 

Louis groans. “If we weren’t related, I’d stop inviting you out.”

“Why don’t you two settle this like the children you are. Rock, paper, scissors?” Niall suggests with genuine innocence.

Harry laughs at Louis’s resigned expression, which signals that he knows he’s defeated. Harry clenches his eyes shut, concentrating very hard, and sees himself covering Louis’s clenched fist with his own hand.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Louis says, sounding bored.

Sure enough, Louis throws rock and Harry wins with paper.

“Piss off.” Louis rolls his eyes, and if Harry didn’t know him better, he’d think he was actually mad. But Harry knows Louis is happy to see his cousin either way.

“Just a gut feeling,” Harry smiles cheekily.

\--

Zayn is exhausted, in that way he only gets after traveling. He feels like he could remain completely immobile for at least a week, preferably in bed. But he’s too ambitious to go straight to his rental and lay about. Or maybe he’s just anxious.

Sometimes, Zayn wishes he were lazy or unmotivated; his life would be a lot simpler. But he’s not, so even though he’s technically got loads of time left to finish his hunt, he can practically hear the seconds ticking by. He’s grateful that he doesn’t have to spend time finding a target like most other uninitiated hunters. No, Zayn had been assigned the youngest Styles by the Council Leader himself due to the threat Styles poses to the Order. Sure, Zayn had had to figure out which address Styles actually lives in, but social media geotags and Google exist. Styles clearly isn’t worried about maintaining the privacy of his digital footprint. Finding him took less time than revising for even one of his first-year exams.

So here he is, parking his rented Bentley just off the road near a group of trees at the very edge of the forest, past the open fields that extend for miles. He was pouty at the rental place at first, thinking that he would stand less chance of being noticed if he rented some dodgy old thing. But then he realized that with all the rich holidaymakers flooding the Forest, a luxury car might actually be less conspicuous. And he does love his cars.

Zayn extends one arm out the window to assess the rain that’s begun to splatter onto the roof of the car. He hates getting wet. Satisfied to feel that it’s only the slightest of drizzles, he rises from his seat and shuts the car door behind him as quietly as possible.

He leans back against the car and pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, fingers itching with need after such a long day. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to his darkening surroundings after the short burst of flame from his Zippo dilates his pupils. It’s so bloody quiet on the outskirts of the village that Zayn knows he’d go mad living out here. He values his personal space, but this is _too_ much.

He squints and angles his head forwards in an attempt to see Styles’ cottage better, but only manages to get his own smoke in his face. Eyes watering, he smokes half the cigarette quickly. He takes one last long pull before stamping it out with the toe of one of his Docs.

Zayn approaches the cottage casually but carefully. It’s a tiny little place with white walls and a thatched roof. He checks that he has the right address once he’s almost upon it. He's surprised that _the_ Harry Styles, a diviner with the potential to become dangerously powerful within his coven, would live in such modest accommodations. _He could be dangerously powerful already_ , Zayn reminds himself, brushing a raindrop from where it caught in his eyelashes. Diviners can be just as prying and evil as the mind readers once they’ve honed their craft.

That’s the tricky part of this hunt – not knowing how well Styles has developed his divination abilities. When Zayn went through his own training, he learned that he wouldn't be able to take down a fully trained, experienced diviner until he was much older and experienced himself. A master diviner has excellent intuition and can search for events on the horizon, months or even years in advance. Zayn grimaces, remembering how one of his distant cousins had gotten cocky. He'd met a tragic end trying to take on an advanced diviner.

Fortunately for Zayn, a younger witch’s ability is usually quite limited. At this point in his training, Styles might be able to see a couple days in advance if he tries to divine the answer to a very specific question.

As there’s no way to know how good of a student Styles is, Zayn can’t afford to be careless. His mentor had drilled it into him: stay hidden until the very last moment, remain a face in the crowd. If a hunter doesn’t give away what they are, doesn’t give a novice diviner any reason to look into the hunter’s future actions, they probably won’t. That’s why Zayn’s casually passing by the cottage tonight – he wants to do a little recon. He needs to know what he’s up against, especially if there’s any possibility that Styles already senses that he’s in danger.

There’s nothing conspicuous about a young man taking a stroll in the Forest. There’s even a footpath leading into the woods just past Styles’ property. People probably come through here all the time. Even still, Zayn shivers. He puts his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, wrapping it tighter around his torso. It’s hard to tell whether the temperature feels like it’s dropped because of the rain or because of his nerves. He stays close to the trees on the opposite side of the road from the cottage, walking slowly.

While it is starting to get dark, it’s early for a summer evening. There’s no car, none of the lights are on, and everything seems still. Is Styles out? Or is it possible that he knows Zayn’s after him already? Is he hiding inside, waiting for Zayn to do something stupid?

Despite these rational questions, Zayn feels inexplicably drawn to tiptoe to the patio and peer inside the sliding glass door. That would be incredibly conspicuous and very, very stupid, but for some reason he can’t shake the urge. Knots begin to tie themselves in his stomach.

If he _could_ get a peek inside without being discovered, it would be helpful for recon purposes; Zayn would know the layout of the cottage in case he wants to plan an ambush. He takes several deep breaths and reminds himself that it is a weekend night, after all. Styles could very well be out with his mates or performing satanic rituals in the forest. Or whatever it is that witches do.

And yet…if he goes up there and Styles is home, or it’s a trap, is Zayn ready to do what he came here for? His hand rests on his revolver, tucked into the holster in the waistband of his jeans. He’s ashamed when he realizes that he’s not sure he knows the answer to that question.

And then it occurs to Zayn that he’s been frozen, staring indecisively at the darkened cottage, for thirty seconds. If that isn’t conspicuous, he doesn’t know what is. If Styles is already searching the future for signs of danger, Zayn’s current behaviour is a giant red flag. He reasons that if he’s already exposed himself, he might as well take a quick look inside the cottage. Maybe he can glean some information that'll give him an upper hand so it's not a complete waste.

Acting on his worst impulse, Zayn hurries to the edge of the patio, intending to sneak over to the glass door. The instant his boot even hovers over the patio tile, Zayn experiences a stabbing pain in his chest that knocks the wind out of him.

“What the fuck?” he hisses, stumbling backwards, palms pressed to his chest. The pain disappears as soon as it came on, leaving Zayn panting. He wonders if he’s had some sort of minor heart attack.

He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, stealing himself to get on with it before he loses his nerve. He’s not having a heart attack. The pain was probably a symptom of the anxiety he’ll surely deal with when he returns to his rental tonight. He takes a deep breath and marches straight back onto Styles’ property.

He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, stealing himself to get on with it before he loses his nerve. He’s not having a heart attack. The pain was probably just a symptom of the anxiety he’ll surely have to deal with when he returns to his rental tonight. He takes a deep breath and marches straight back onto Styles’ property.

He manages two steps before he’s doubled over.

 _Knives_ is the only word Zayn’s pain-addled brain can come up with. Knives everywhere. In his chest, between his ribs, right next to his spine. His arms and legs go numb, useless. He drops to his knees involuntarily, trying to pull himself back towards the road so he can escape the excruciating pain. After a couple seconds of hell, which may as well have been hours, he manages to roll off the patio and back onto the grass.

The second the pain stops, Zayn’s hands are everywhere. He runs them frantically over his chest, legs, and stomach, trying to find the phantom stab wounds that plagued him mere seconds before. He searches his clothes for blood, convinced he’ll find some mark of physical harm. Although he comes up with nothing, he makes no move to stand. Zayn simply lies there on the ground, staring up at the stars as fatter and fatter rain droplets splash his face. He thinks he’s maybe gone into shock.

He knows it must be some magical bullshit, some sort of protection charm to keep him out. This is a terrifying confirmation that Styles knows something. _What exactly does he know, though?_ Zayn wonders, hand on his heart in a half-arsed attempt to slow its rhythmic knocking against his ribs. Does he only know he’s being hunted? Or does he know Zayn’s face, his name?

Zayn’s heart nearly stops. Does he know Zayn is laying next to his house like a complete idiot?

Zayn scrambles to his feet, dusting himself off as he runs full pelt back to his car. He’s barely in the seat before the engine is roaring to life.

\--

“Shit,” Harry whispers, reaching out with his fingers as if to grasp something invisible out of mid-air. Despite the now-heavy rain drenching his head and shoulders, he’s stopped only about a metre away from where the cab dropped them off. The rain has made the night air refreshingly cool, and its sound is usually something he finds comforting, but he’s suddenly on edge. Something is wrong.

“What is up with you?” Louis laughs when he realizes Harry hasn’t followed him to the door.

Harry doesn’t grant him a response and simply continues feeling the air in front of him. Hot fear pumps from his chest when he notices the moon’s light reflecting off his nail polish. It’s black now, no longer the royal purple he’d woken up with.

“Seriously mate, didn’t think you were _that_ drunk.”

Still grasping the air with one hand, Harry eventually allows Louis to pull him towards the cottage. Louis’s firm grip around his wrist grounds him finally, but he’s still struggling to make sense of what’s happening through the several piña coladas he’d had. Niall had rolled his eyes and sipped his rum and Coke, but Harry can never resist a fruity drink.

“Lou, this is _bad_.” Harry draws out the last word and stumbles a bit too close to Louis, who’s unlocking the front door. Harry steadies himself using his cousin’s shoulders.

“Going to tell me what you’re carrying on about?” Louis steps in and holds the door open for Harry, who trails inside.

He stops in the middle of the sitting room, blinking slowly as he tries to adjust to the sudden bright light inside. If Harry’s honest, he kind of _is_ that drunk.

Louis, however, is already knocking around inside the kitchen. “More drink?” he calls, reappearing in the doorway with glasses and the rest of the red wine from that morning in his hands.

Harry shakes his head. “Someone’s watching me.”

“What?” Louis asks, alarm in his eyes. “Tell me what’s going on,” he demands, pulling Harry down to sit on the faded floral couch. He pours himself a glass of wine and tosses Harry a nearby blanket to cover his damp shoulders. He then turns to watch Harry, waiting for an explanation.

“I keep having these fucked up dreams, and I don’t know what they mean.” Harry perches on the edge of the sofa, running a hand through his unruly hair. “It’s like, everything’s calm...and then it’s not. It feels like something’s at the edge of the woods, waiting for the perfect time to…” he trails off. “To…I don’t know. I’ve tried to focus on what I see in the dream to get more information, but my sight is too weak. I never see anything helpful. Sometimes I get this weird, gritty feeling in the back of my throat that makes me cough, but that’s it. It must be too far in the future for me to see properly.”

Louis sips from his glass thoughtfully. “You’ve cast something for protection, I hope.”

“Course I did, that’s how I know someone’s been here.” Harry slumps back against the sofa, allowing himself to sink into it. “I could feel it as soon as we got out of the cab, in the air. Someone came onto my property today.” The verbal admission causes Harry’s shoulders to tense. He massages his temples, trying to will away the stress.

“Oh, so _that’s_ what you were doing,” Louis grins. “I thought you’d lost it for a moment there.”

Harry elbows Louis in the ribs. “This is serious!”

“It is, but there’s not much we can do about it at the moment.” Louis rubs the spot where Harry jabbed him, and talks over him when Harry tries to butt in. “Someone may be stalking you, but the fact that they’re not here right now means your spell _worked_. You can worry about it tomorrow.”

“I guess you’re right,” Harry concedes. “I cast it so that no one with malicious intent could enter without feeling as if they’d been stabbed.”

Louis looks impressed. “That’s quite savage for you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m paranoid.” Harry rubs his eyes and blinks a couple times in rapid succession, attempting to bring the room into focus. He always feels like he’s popped in someone else’s contact lenses when he’s drunk; everything goes blurry.

“You’re also quite pissed,” Louis laughs, downing the rest of the wine in his glass. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Harry pouts but lets himself be led off once again, this time in the direction of his bedroom. Louis has to catch him on the way as he trips himself attempting to kick off his brown Chelsea boots. As soon as he sees his half-made bed laden with a million pillows, just how he likes it, Harry feels exhausted. He swings his leg up onto the bed and falls into it face down.

“Please tell me you aren’t going to sleep in skinny jeans,” Louis says from the doorway, and Harry can practically hear his eyebrows rise in judgment.

Still face down, he makes a shooing motion with one hand by way of response. Changing clothes is too much effort when his brain feels soggy and he can smell his favourite lavender detergent on his sheets.

Louis chuckles. “Alright then…sleep tight!” he says in a sing-song voice as he switches Harry’s bedroom light off.

Harry is vaguely aware that Louis is making fun of him, but his eyelids are too heavy for him to care. He hopes that Louis remembers where the extra blankets are so that he’ll be comfortable on the sofa. He can’t even work up the energy to feel sorry about being a terrible host.

Harry’s always prided himself on his ability to fall asleep just about anywhere, in any circumstance. Apparently, having a potential stalker makes no exception to that rule. At least, not with the comforting sound of rain beating down on the roof. Harry's breathing slows, his left leg gives one last involuntary twitch, and everything is still.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally cannot believe I'm posting this. I started writing this in 2016 and dropped it after writing 20k words because grad school got to be too much. I picked it back up in quarantine on a whim and here we are 80k words later. Never in my LIFE did I think I'd have it in me to write a novel and I have to thank Cara a million times over for beta reading this because I wouldn't have finished this otherwise. Thank you also to Izzy, Vikki, and all my tumblr friends who encouraged me.
> 
> I welcome any compliments as well as suggestions (PLEASE let me know if you find a grammar/spelling error lol)!
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr @witchrry! :)
> 
> Photo references for [Harry](https://imagesvc.meredithcorp.io/v3/mm/image?url=https%3A%2F%2Fstatic.onecms.io%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2Fsites%2F14%2F2016%2F01%2F27%2F012716-harry-styles-hair-11-2000.jpg) and [Zayn](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/dc/f1/0c/dcf10c4328a63be3de0ed70a9bedf951.jpg)


	2. if time stands still, move i will to you

The first thing Zayn is conscious of is how stiflingly hot it is under his duvet. That, and a nagging feeling of persistent loneliness.

He kicks off his blankets but doesn’t make any motion to leave the bed. Instead, he tries to grasp the edge of the dream that’s dancing away from the fingertips of his waking mind. All Zayn can remember is a firm feeling of comfort and the sound of laughter. His chest aches when he remembers he won’t have that for a while. Not with being stuck here, prohibited from even ringing his mum to ask for cooking advice.

Zayn’s always come off as a loner to people who don’t know him well, but that’s not exactly the case. He likes being in his own space, yes. But he likes his space to be nestled comfortably next to someone else’s space. Like his room within his parent’s house, for example. Liam’s always ringing to ask when he can drive up for some football and video games. Whenever he takes his headphones out, he can hear one of his sisters chattering on the phone down the hall. He loves his bedroom at uni, where he wakes up on Saturdays to his flatmate scrambling eggs, just as much. If he concentrates, he can almost smell those eggs now.

The house he’s renting in the Forest is quite beautiful, he thinks. The sheets on his king-sized bed are a pearly blue colour that matches that of the walls. The fireplace in his bedroom is a nice touch, and so are the high windows looking out over the expansive Italian garden. But even after staying here just one day, Zayn’s noticed that the other two bedrooms are painfully quiet. Upon his arrival yesterday afternoon, he'd remedied the silence by playing Tupac extra loud. He was in quite a different mood, however, upon returning last night. He was so shaken that he went straight to bed, listening only to the oppressive silence.

He stretches, making a mental to-do list in his head. He knows he needs to plan out his next move and figure out how to get past Styles’s defences. But he also knows he should probably get some snacks and things that'll make it feel homier while he’s here.

He’s trying to Google the nearest supermarket on his mobile when it buzzes, shocking him into dropping it into his lap. As he can’t communicate with any of his family, and he’s never made a habit out of speaking on the phone with anyone else, he’s quite taken aback by the call.

Zayn turns his mobile right-side up, careful not to accept the call by accident before he’s ready. The number isn’t in his contacts, but the “020” at the beginning makes his stomach sink. If the call is coming from London, he’s got a good idea who it is.

He knows if he doesn’t pick up immediately, he’ll chicken out and let it go to voicemail. Even still, his thumb hovers over the green button for a couple seconds before he takes the plunge.

“Hel–” Zayn starts, but his voice is still raspy and hoarse from sleep. _Great_.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Hello?”

“Is this Zayn Malik?” a clipped and familiar, yet not entirely pleasant, voice demands.

“Yeah. Uh, speaking.” Zayn hates Simon for making him do this so formally. He can't tell if Simon’s trying to make Zayn feel unimportant, or whether he genuinely doesn’t remember his voice even after all the times they’ve met.

Either way, Zayn thinks he’s a prick.

“Great. Glad to have caught you this morning.” Simon sounds like he’s mainlining coffee via an IV drip.

He sounds so _awake_ , Zayn complains internally, checking his watch. It’s only half eight.

“I wanted to speak to you regarding your assignment.”

If Zayn were speaking to anyone else, he would laugh; it’s not like he’s a secret agent. “Uhh…okay.”

“You probably weren’t expecting a call from the Council so early.”

Zayn nods his head in agreement, despite being invisible to Simon.

“We – I, really – just wanted to make sure you were settling in. Do you have a plan?”

“Well...not yet. That’s kind of what I was going to do today. He’s got a protection spell up already.” Zayn can feel the tips of his ears reddening. He hadn’t thought he was moving slowly by any means.

“Good. I just wanted to make sure you’re focused on your assignment,” Simon says.

There’s that word again. Assignment. Zayn twists his free hand into the duvet.

“The Styles family has always been dangerous, but the youngest one has the potential to be the biggest threat yet. We’re not sure who’s delivering his training, as he’s no longer living with his family, but he’s of age. A diviner with training, who can conjure up visions at will, could be disastrous for us. Not just for the Council, but for you and your family. Everyone. I'm sure you need no reminder that the quicker you finish this, the less opportunity he has to anticipate your movements.”

“Yeah, I’m like...I’m definitely working on it.”

At Simon’s mention of Styles seeing his movements, Zayn swallows hard. He did one of the most conspicuous things he could have done last night, short of jumping out of the bushes and shouting at Styles that he’s here to hunt him. Zayn’s been asking himself why he did that for the past twelve hours but hasn’t come up with a good answer yet. It was like he was drawn to the house by some magnetic force. Somehow, it was the most sensible thing to do in the moment, even though it made no sense at all. Surely, if Styles had been sifting through visions of the future looking for anything amiss, he would have seen Zayn. It’s bloody good luck that Styles wasn’t already waiting to ambush him last night.

“Great. The next step is to monitor his movements. See if you can work out his schedule so you can catch him off guard. Know where he goes when he leaves his property.”

“Right,” Zayn agrees. That’s entirely obvious. He’s embarrassed that he hadn’t come up with it already.

“Do you have any questions?” Simon asks in that brisk tone.

Yeah, he does. Zayn has a lot of questions. Like, _Why are you checking in so early?_ _Why are we speaking about this, when Styles could have a vision about anything we say out loud?_ Or, _Why are you offering me ideas when the entire point of the hunt is for me to do it independently?_ But he doesn’t ask. Simon’s brisk tone means that he's trying to wrap it up. He probably has better things to do as Council Leader than chit-chat about Zayn’s incompetence.

“No.”

“Right then. I will be checking in on you periodically to assess your progress. I must stress that while we will be in contact, you are not to discuss our calls or the details of your hunt to anyone else, not even your family.”

“Got it.”

“Good day.”

The line goes dead.

Zayn groans and buries his head under the pillows. He didn’t know he would have bloody _Simon_ , of all people, checking in on him. He’s a very important man and Zayn knows he should feel lucky that his parents are in his social circle. Despite this, Simon always rubbed Zayn the wrong way whenever he made an appearance at dinner parties. It was like Simon was leering at him, assessing his worth. He didn’t like it at all. Unfortunately, the Maliks had invited Simon to come round much more frequently over the past year. Last winter, Simon’s favourite nephew had overestimated his abilities against an experienced witch. Subsequently he met a gruesome end at the hands of his target. No one ever talked about it, but it was an open secret among the Order that Simon had been struggling with the loss.

Zayn thinks it's unusual to have his check-ins be conducted by the Council Leader himself, but it's even weirder that he got a call barely twenty-four hours after his hunt started. He expected to have something to report for his first check-in. And from the way his older sister spoke about them, the check-ins sounded like a sporadic formality to make sure a hunter wasn't hurt or in trouble. After all, hunts could and often did take _months_ to execute. Styles must be more powerful than he thought, if Simon’s rushing him like this. Either that, or Simon really wants Styles eliminated.

Despite how hot it is, Zayn buries himself under the duvet again. As his thoughts cycle through his main worries again – that he’s not a good hunter, that he’ll fuck up his hunt, and that worst of all, he’ll disappoint his father – he tries to take deep breaths like Doniya taught him. He focuses on filling himself with air all the way to his stomach before pushing it out again. In, out. In, out. Ten times, until his heart rate slows to normal.

Eventually, tired of staring at the chic black duvet cover, Zayn emerges from it to make himself a shopping list.

\--

As Harry gains consciousness, he becomes vaguely aware of an acrid sort of smell, his drowsy mind not quite able to place it at first. For about half a minute or so, his mind wanders back to the dream he’d been having, something about the beach. He can feel the sand between his toes and his sister's laughter ringing in his ears, but the sharp odour he's inhaling doesn't fit with the rest of the scene.

He's fully awake by the time he recognizes it, or at least, he thinks he is. _Fire_ , his mind screams, _the house is burning_! He struggles to kick off the light sheet he’d curled up in overnight, only managing to get himself more tangled. He’s moving fast, adrenaline pumping as he inhales the smoky air filtering through the cracks around his bedroom door. So fast, in fact, that he isn’t able to stop his top half from toppling out of bed while his legs, still wrapped tight in the sheet, are unable to follow.

Harry screeches as he tumbles to the floor and attempts to writhe out of the sheet knotted around his calves.

He’s startled by a sudden cackle in the doorway. Harry’s head snaps up to see Louis standing there against the frame, balancing a plate of toast on one hand while he feeds himself with the other.

“So glad I got to witness that,” he grins around the toast in his mouth. “What’s all the hurry? You really that keen on my cooking?”

“What’s burning?” Harry demands. His heart slows considerably upon seeing Louis standing around in his boxer shorts, unconcerned.

“Nothing!”

Louis sighs when he sees Harry’s narrowed eyebrows.

“Okay, I burned the toast. A little. It’s edible!” Louis says defensively. “If only I’d had my camera ready for that one,” he tosses over his shoulder, making his way back to the kitchen.

“Twat,” Harry mutters to himself, finally kicking himself free. Still in his clothes from the previous day, he feels sweaty and greasy. He takes Louis’s lead and changes into a pair of boxers before following him to the kitchen table.

Harry scarfs down the rest of the toast, which is definitely more than a little burnt, and pointedly ignores Louis’s re-enactment of his fall (“You should have _seen_ your face!”). Unfortunately, this only eggs Louis on further.

When he finally wears himself out, they fall into a comfortable silence. Harry looks out the window, washing down his burnt toast and hangover with orange juice, and watches two finches flit around the garden.

“How’d you get away this time?” he asks, eyes following one bird as it chases the other from one fence post to another.  
Louis sighs, as if it had been a great deal of work. “Told them I was going to Greece on holiday with Eleanor’s family. And I am, but they don't leave until tomorrow evening. I had to take that bloody train because they'd know I was lying if I took the car.”

Harry sees the face Louis makes out of the corner of his eye, and something painful twists in his ribs.

“What an inconvenience, having to take the train down,” Harry says drily, still gazing out the window. The second finch, who's had enough, rounds on its pursuer and chases it into a tree.

“Oh, come on. You know I don’t mean it like that. I do like coming to see you.” Louis reaches across the table to tweak Harry’s nose. “I just wish that...you know. I hadn’t been forbidden from doing so.”

Harry turns his head to meet Louis’s blue eyes, finding only sincerity. His comment was petty, but he’s feeling quite petulant given his earlier fall and dehydration-induced headache.

“Anyway, I have something for you.” Louis pulls an envelope out of his back pocket and waves it in front of Harry’s face.

Harry snatches it from him, slipping his finger underneath the closed flap. He nods his head approvingly at the sizeable amount of money printed on the cheque inside, although it’s a far cry from the monthly allowance he used to receive. Harry had grown up relatively well-off, but that meant nothing after he was thrown out of the Coven and cut off from his family. Harry traces the loop of the A that begins his mum’s signature. It’s been months since they last spoke.

Louis stands up to retrieve a parcel that Harry hadn’t yet noticed from the counter.

“What’s this then?” he asks, eyeing it.

“Anne wanted me to bring you some supplies. I think she worries that you can’t shop for yourself.”

Louis’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Harry’s don’t.

Harry sifts through the parcel and some finds lovely-smelling candles, a number of essential oils, and a couple herbs and spices that are hard to find in shops. Impressed, he wonders how she managed to find a whole bottle of ambergris, but it’s not what he really wants. Harry focuses on smoothing the frown lines between his eyes and maintaining a neutral expression. He doesn’t want Louis to go home and give anyone the satisfaction of thinking that Harry’s not thriving on his own. Unfortunately, Harry underestimates how well his cousin knows him.

“She does miss you, you know,” Louis says quietly.

“If she missed me that much, she would come down here herself instead of sending you every month.”

“You know it’s not as simple as that, Harry.” Louis’s eyes are downcast, avoiding Harry’s fiery stare.

Harry doesn’t answer, keeps himself busy instead by inspecting and re-inspecting everything in the parcel. Louis kindly lets Harry stew for a long moment before suggesting that he teach Harry another healing spell.

Harry almost says he’s not in the mood, but he knows he needs Louis’s lessons. Growing up at home, he was allowed more than a taste of magical knowledge through his mum and stepdad’s informal instruction. Not to mention, Gemma was always crowing about winning the potions master award for the northwest in her age category. Sometimes, she let Harry help prepare ingredients for her complex concoctions. But now that he has the burning desire to grow his own craft, especially his inner sight, he’s stuck.

Lou’s lessons are all he’s got now, even though healing isn’t Harry’s specialty. Harry figures it’s better than learning nothing or trying to get all his information out of dusty old books. He’s never really been the best teacher anyway. Or the best student.

“Go on then,” Harry agrees.

“Well, the last time I came round, you were successful with some plant healing. So, I was thinking….” Louis trails off as he rummages through the parcel. “Aha. I knew I saw her toss some of these in.” He pulls out a small, semi-clear, greenish rock attached to a chain.

“I’ve never used crystals before.” Harry's intrigued.

“It’s green fluorite,” Louis says, tossing the crystal to Harry across the table. “It’s used for all-purpose healing.”

“Do I just…charge it?”

“Sort of," Louis explains. "You want to channel energy through it. Focus it into the crystal first, and then push it out again when your energy’s mixed with the crystal’s.”

Harry nods, trying to look like a good student. He finds Louis’s teacher voice incredibly amusing, so he always indulges him during their lessons.

Harry closes his eyes, eager to get going. He rubs his pointer finger along the length of the crystal, enjoying its smooth finish.

“I haven't finished!” Louis snaps impatiently. “You don’t have anything to heal yet either.”

“Oh. Right.” Sheepish, Harry opens his eyes.

Louis continues. “Once you feel you’ve filled the crystal up with energy, focus on moving it out again and towards whatever’s injured. It’s good to circle the injury with the hand holding the crystal so you you really get in there. Oh, and you want to say, ‘Bright light, shining light, heal the hurt with all thy might.’ Got all that?”

Harry nods again vigorously, trying to memorize all the information.

“Good. Ready then?” Louis asks. There's a glint in his eye that never means anything good.

“I think so but...do you have a plant for me to practice on?" Harry asks. "Or should I get something from the garden?”

“No and no.” Louis pushes his chair back on the tiled floor and grabs a knife from the drying rack.

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “Louis, what–”

“This is super easy, I promise.”

“Louis!” Harry yelps, as Louis slices through his own palm with the knife.

“Human healing,” Louis winces through his smile. “Thought you were up for it.”

Harry stares at Louis’s outstretched hand. It’s not gushing blood, but it’s definitely bleeding.

“Don’t just stand there!”

“Alright!” Harry closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to expel all the thoughts from his mind. He concentrates instead on pulling the earth’s energy through the floor of the cottage and into the soles of his bare feet.

He’s well on his way, fluorite clutched in his hand, when he sneaks a peek at Louis. He's grimacing at his palm; it must hurt. Harry thinks about how silly it was to spring this on him without warning, how irresponsible of Louis, and then– “Fuck,” he mutters. He’s lost it.

Harry lets out all the air in his lungs and shakes out his arms, ready to try again. This time he summons about three-quarters of the energy he needs before his eyes flicker open unbidden. A rivulet of blood slides down Louis’s palm onto the floor.

He goes for it then, knowing he probably hasn't prepared well enough, but he can’t have his own cousin bleeding all over the floor. Harry grabs Louis’s wrist and circles the fluorite around the cut, which looks deep now that it’s up close. Almost immediately, he realizes that he didn’t borrow enough energy from the earth. He says the incantation and supplements the spell with energy from his own body, focusing as hard as he can on pushing it through the crystal and into Louis.

All that happens is that a little spurt of blood jumps from Louis’s palm to the floor. Harry gasps. His chair scrapes against the floor as he jumps back, horrified.

Louis just laughs. “You’re so soft Harry, I swear. I can _literally_ see you sweating.”

He snatches the crystal from Harry’s hand, and within mere seconds he’s healed himself.

“See?” He holds his palm up to Harry to inspect. “All better.”

Harry slumps down in his chair, careful to keep his feet away from the droplets of blood on the floor. “I’m sorry Lou. I really was trying but I just...." He sighs. "How did I manage to make you bleed even more?”

Louis chuckles as he rummages through Harry’s cabinets for disinfectant and kitchen roll. “You didn’t. When the cut closes, it squeezes out a little blood, is all.”

“Wait, so I did it right?” Harry asks, confused. He feels drowsy and a little faint from the energy he expended on the spell.

“Don’t get too full of yourself,” Louis says from the floor. “I knew you weren’t going to finish it; you didn’t have enough energy.”

“I was worried!” Harry pouts. “You were bleeding!”

“I know, I know. But I figured telling you what I was going to do ahead of time would have stressed you out even more.” Louis drops the sullied kitchen roll in the bin; the floor is now as clean as his healed hand. “Just know that I would never let something get out of control. You need to learn, is all.” He sits back down across from Harry.

“Can we try another time?” Harry asks hopefully.

“Course. I just need you to be sure of yourself. It’s the only way you’re going to get any better, without proper training. The only way I can be of use to you is if you know you can do it.”

The look Louis is giving him is meant to be encouraging, but Harry nearly wilts under it. It’s a lot of pressure, to be so sure of oneself.

“Right,” Harry sighs. “It’s just hard because...like...healing is _your_ thing. It’s _your_ gift. I can learn with a tonne of practice, but you get it intuitively.” He closes his eyes and leans back against his chair. “I wish someone could teach me about _my_ gift.”

“That must be hard, not knowing how to control your visions,” Louis agrees. He sees Harry’s frown and continues in a more upbeat tone. “Don’t get so down. You knew what I was going to say in rock paper scissors even though I changed my mind last second!”

Harry sighs again and opens his eyes. “Yeah, but that’s literally baby stuff. I could do that when I was fifteen. Wish I knew what my dreams were trying to tell me.”

“Honestly Harry, it could be a rabid racoon who wants to ransack your bins, for all you know.” Louis shrugs, shaking his head. “I thought it over once you went to sleep, and I just can’t think of any reason someone would be after you.”

Something deep in Harry’s gut tries to tell him that this is not the most sensible assessment. Another part of Harry, the part that hates that feeling of gnawing uncertainty more than anything, shuts the worry voice up with barely a conscious thought.

“And you’ve cast your protection spell, so let’s not dwell on it,” Louis says brightly. “You can just ring me if anything else worries you.”

Harry nods, playing the part of someone who’s convinced of his personal safety, and settles back down in his chair. He closes his eyes once more.

“Since I brought all this shit down for you, how about you put it away, yeah?” Louis chucks a vial of chamomile straight at Harry’s face.

Eyes still closed, Harry’s hand is already up to catch it.

\--

Zayn shifts his weight against the stiff tree trunk he’s been sitting against for the past hour, trying to get comfortable. It’s impossible. The bark on this part of the tree pokes out at weird angles, and the twigs digging into his legs don’t feel pleasant. But if he moves to the side where it looks comfier, he’ll be clearly visible from the cottage. Zayn doesn’t like being a complainer, even if he’s only complaining to himself. But there are ants crawling all over his legs and the bird two trees over _really_ should shut up if it knows what’s good for it.

Zayn itches to check his mobile even though he knows there won’t be any messages. It’s a shame; he should be chilling with Liam for the summer holidays. Zayn hasn’t seen him in almost a year, he realizes. When he’d been off uni for the winter holidays, Liam’s family had been away skiing. They'd fallen off texting each other recently too, wrapped up with their friends from uni. Zayn hopes that everything will naturally fall back into place the next time they see each other.

Zayn sighs and pops a biscuit into his mouth from the sleeve he brought with him, pinched from yesterday’s successful grocery adventure. He wishes he’d brought a book too. He could have read fifty pages by now, in the time he’s spent staring at Styles’s house watching nothing happen.

And then, something _does_ happen.

The front door slams open with such force that Zayn flings his next biscuit several metres into the forest by accident. The infernal bird overhead finally halts its chattering.

“Lou! Careful!” a deep voice admonishes.

Zayn sits up straighter, heart pounding. He peeks around the tree trunk just enough to watch what’s going on across the little road, careful to keep most of his body obscured.

“This place may be small, but it’s certainly not cheap,” the voice continues.

Even from this distance, Zayn knows it belongs to Styles. He’s seen him in pictures, and that unruly hair is not hard to mistake. Styles has followed another man out onto the little patio. He’s dressed quite smartly, Zayn thinks, what with living in the middle of nowhere and all. He’s wearing tight black trousers while a too-big, half-buttoned shirt hangs off his broad shoulders.

“Sorry, underestimated me own strength, apparently.” The other man, who must be Lou, grins through an accent that originates not too far from Zayn’s.

“Shame you have to go so soon. You’ve not even been here 24 hours.” Styles pouts, lifting his hand to block the sun from his eyes.

“I know, but Eleanor really wants me to come on her family holiday and that's where I told my parents I was going. It would cause a scene if I didn't go and Eleanor's parents mentioned it to mum and dad down the line.” The man named Lou shrugs apologetically.

Zayn’s neck starts to hurt from the strain of turning it all the way around to spy on the pair. He shifts his weight slightly, freezing when twigs and leaves creak underneath him.

“Well, thanks anyway, for bringing all that stuff. And for coming to see me as well.” Styles opens his arms for a hug, which Lou accepts eagerly. 

“No worries mate, have to look out for the family baby, don’t I?”

Styles pulls away and rolls his eyes. He tries not to smile, but his dimples give him away.

As if on cue, a cab trundles up the road to take Lou away. Styles waves energetically as Lou climbs into the backseat.

Styles’s demeanour changes the instant the cab is out of sight. He lets out a sigh, his shoulders slumping. Moments ago, he looked like he walked straight off the page of a fashion magazine. Now his oversized, pink polka-dot shirt looks like it’s wearing him. He slides his hands into his pockets and looks around, like he’s taking stock of his surroundings. Zayn would feel bad for him in any other circumstance. He looks lost in his own home.

After a moment, Styles retreats back inside. Zayn groans, assuming he has even more waiting to do before Styles does something else. But to Zayn’s simultaneous relief and terror, Styles is back in a matter of seconds, carrying a little box. He turns around the side of the cottage and heads into the woods behind it at a brisk pace.

Zayn is grateful to finally stand. He brushes off his khaki trousers while he waits for Styles to put some distance between them. In particular, he rubs at a damp patch a wet leaf left on the back of his thigh, hoping that it won’t stain. He did make an effort, with the khakis and an army green denim shirt, to be somewhat camouflaged today. Even still, his wardrobe is most definitely not anymore cut out for this than he is.

Once he’s confident he’s given Styles a big enough lead, he jogs over to the spot where Styles entered the woods. Zayn’s dismayed to realize that Styles had forged his own way into the trees instead of following a marked footpath. Zayn quickly scans the ground for tracks, just like he learned during his training. Fortunately, the ground isn't fully dry after last night's rain. Between the faint imprints of Styles’s trainers and the twigs he’s broken underfoot, Zayn will have to make do.

Zayn thinks he’s lost the trail for one terrible moment when he comes upon a fork of sorts. Two sets of tracks lead in two different directions. Knowing that every second not moving is a second wasted, he starts down one at random and walks through a spider web almost immediately. Zayn swats it away, thinking that this is the first and last time he’ll be happy to have a spider web stuck to his face. Knowing now that this trail isn’t fresh, he swiftly turns to follow the other tracks. After another moment of tracking, Zayn gets close enough to hear Styles crunching through the undergrowth ahead of him.

Despite the knowledge Zayn’s training bestowed upon him, he doesn’t have much practical experience sneaking around the woods. Every step he takes in pursuit seems to echo for miles, straight into the heart of the forest. His Docs connect with a number of things: leafy calf-high plants, tree roots, rocks. He curses his clumsy feet, but he’s far enough behind that his ruckus is likely too far away to cause Styles concern.

After about five minutes of following Styles and subtly marking his trail, Zayn begins to panic. What if this is a set up? What if Styles has already seen Zayn coming to spy on him, and has come up with a plan to deal with him? Why the hell else would Styles bolt straight into the for–

Zayn stops dead, barely suppressing a gasp.

He’s got one foot inside a clearing, a clearing he was not expecting following the tall bushes he had just fought through.

And there’s Styles, a mere ten metres away.

He’s got one foot inside a clearing, one he was not expecting after the thicket of trees and tall bushes he had just fought through. And there’s Styles, a mere ten metres away.

His back is to Zayn, who thanks his lucky stars. He isn’t trying to die today.

Zayn soundlessly withdraws his left foot back into the safety of the thicket. For a horrible second he thinks he’s been found out anyway, as Styles, who’s crouching down to the ground, tenses. Zayn’s mind goes blank, and the heavy weight of his revolver feels like it’s burning a hole through his hip.

And then, something changes. The man before him reaches out to something on the ground; Zayn cranes his neck to see. When Zayn realizes Styles is rubbing the yellow petal of a flower between his thumb and forefinger, he rolls his eyes straight back into his head.

Styles stays in the clearing for a long moment, plucking petals off flowers and humming an irritating song under his breath. He’s ridiculous, but Zayn can’t help but notice a certain beauty in the scene before him. Styles seems to belong here amongst the flowers and moss, with the light filtering through the trees to caress his shoulders. He bends to smell each flower before he picks it, and Zayn wonders if all witches are tree huggers.

When Styles has picked his fill of little yellow flowers, he moves swiftly back into the forest. Zayn stays hot on his trail.

They can’t have gone more than half a mile, but Zayn is tiring from the effort of walking as quietly as possible. He again starts to worry that this is a trap. What if Styles anticipated that Zayn would follow him, and is leading him deep enough into the forest so that no one would hear a struggle? Zayn finds his right hand hovering over his hip, knowing that this far in, no one would hear a gunshot either.

As preoccupied as Zayn is with imagining all the ways Styles might attack him, he’s confused when Styles approaches a huge rock – no, cave – and makes himself comfortable sitting criss-cross inside.

“What the fuck…” Zayn murmurs, chuckling to himself.

The floor of the shallow cave is covered in little bottles, flowers of assorted yellows and oranges, and various other objects. Styles touches each of them lightly, one by one, before removing a couple vials from the box and adding them to the mix. Finally, he scatters some of his newfound flower petals among the items.

Zayn doesn’t know what half the shit is. There are candles and flowers and herbs, yes, but also...bones? Something that looks like blades of grass, bound together into a bundle?

When Styles closes his eyes and begins what looks like a deep-breathing technique, Zayn feels confident Styles has not, in fact, divined his presence here today. Relieved, he settles in to wait until it’s over. He even checks his mobile once before he remembers he’s off the grid.

A nasty voice inside Zayn’s head informs him that he may never get another opportunity as perfect as this. He could end the whole hunt now _so_ easily. Zayn knows this, and yet, or perhaps because of it, it doesn’t feel right to do it now. Styles looks so peaceful, even if he is rotten on the inside like the rest of them.

 _Besides_ , Zayn reminds himself, _this was only meant to be another recon mission to help me plan. I haven’t yet figured out how quickly someone will miss him, or where to dispose of him_.

The nasty voice argues that these are lame excuses. Zayn ignores it.

After five minutes, watching Styles sit motionless in a cave no longer holds Zayn's attention. After another three, neither does staring at the second hand on his watch. He spends the next couple minutes chipping bark off a tree until a piece gets jammed under his nail. Zayn’s eyes water from the shock as he sucks on his index finger, lamenting his predicament. To top it off, he feels the unmistakable prick of a mosquito, dead in the centre of his right thigh.

Without thinking, he slaps it. Hard.

Zayn feels triumphant for a split second before he realizes what he’s done. He doesn’t have to look to know that Styles has been startled out of his trance.

Sure enough, Styles calls, “Who’s there?”

Zayn listens to his heart pounding in his ears, which almost overpowers the sound of Styles scrambling to his feet.

It’s absurd how scared Zayn is that Styles will discover him; it’s not Zayn, after all, who’s being hunted. But he’s heard the stories of what witches do to those who wish them harm. Terrible, gruesome stories. Hunters being set on fire, getting dismembered, losing their minds...and if the old legends are true, even being served up on a plate for tea. He stands motionless until his bones ache, sure that even his very cells have stopped their perpetual reproduction.

Styles makes no noise either. Zayn knows he is also still, watching and waiting for the intruder to make themselves known. And finally, Zayn can’t take it.

He knows it’s stupid. It’s just about the stupidest thing he _could_ do, but he needs to get out. Now.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Zayn takes off in the vague direction from whence they came, stumbling through the undergrowth. Pure fear energizes him. It pushes his legs forward at a speed he wouldn’t be able to achieve normally.

As Zayn runs for safety, he has an insatiable urge to look back in the direction of the cave, to know how Styles has reacted. If he shows Styles his face, Zayn increases the chances of him becoming a dead man from “most probable” to “absolutely certain.” And yet, like a modern-day Orpheus, he fails the test.

He turns, locking eyes with Styles through the foliage. Styles is standing outside his little cave, arms spread out behind him defensively, as if to protect any of the useless trinkets inside. As Styles stares, mouth open wide in a silent O, Zayn sees his own fear reflected back at him in those wide hazel eyes.

\--

Harry is distracted all through work the next day. His cakes are subpar, he completely forgets to make the puff pastries, and he’s knocked the bag of flour onto the floor twice.

“You okay, Harry?” Niall asks casually when he comes into the back after closing up, only to find Harry sweeping up powder once again.

“I’m great,” Harry responds with an attempt at genuine enthusiasm, flashing his dimples.

“You’ve been acting like someone’s after you,” Niall laughs and grabs another broom.

Harry inhales sharply, coughing as he breathes in a mouthful of flour.

Harry can't get that striking but obviously terrified boy out of his mind. Is he dangerous? Did he somehow follow Harry to his altar without him noticing, or did he happen upon it? Either way, Harry fumes about his useless visions and, by extension, his mother. If he'd been trained properly, he might already have the answers to these questions. Harry debated ringing Louis all day, but ultimately decided against it. He knows his cousin won’t be of much help while he's in Greece, and he doesn't want to worry him.

As soon as the bakery’s closed, Harry’s itching to get back to his altar. He knows it’s stupid. It’s downright reckless, especially as it’ll be dusk before he’s back home. But he left in such a hurry yesterday that he’s worried about all the things he’d collected over the past few months. They could get blown away or stolen, unless he puts them away properly. While a part of him, buried deep within his brain, understands the danger he could be walking back into , his conscious mind won’t entertain the thought.

Harry leaves Niall with a curt goodbye that he’ll feel bad for later and turns up the Rolling Stones for his drive home. He takes a roundabout route from the entrance to the woods, wary of followers this time. Normally, he’d take in the flora and fauna on the way, but he’s too tense today. His ears listen so hard they hurt, and he throws glances over his shoulder every couple seconds.

When he reaches his little cave, Harry breathes a sigh of relief to see that all his things are still inside. It’s a blessing to have found this place, really, so that he can keep his altar somewhere outside in the warm months. A simple protection spell against wandering animals has kept it safe so far, but after yesterday he reckons it’s time to add a bit more security. 

He sets off finding rocks and sticks of all different sizes before clearing a spot of foliage to space for a fire. Harry resented his parents for making him join the Scouts when he was small, but at least he knows how to build a fire. The flames are soon licking at the tinder, and Harry settles in to enjoy their warmth like a mug of hot tea in the crisp evening air.

Sitting next to the rocks he collected, Harry takes a little pot of black paint and a paintbrush out of his bag. He paints the same symbol on each rock, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates. That’s one thing Harry managed to complete at work – by doodling with his finger in the spilt flour, he came up with a sigil appropriate for keeping out human intruders. He hums to himself and tends the fire, waiting for it to grow big enough so he drop the painted rocks inside and charge them with the fire’s energy.

Once they’re in the fire, it takes restraint not to remove them before they’re ready. Harry’s so anxious that the boy will show up again. He calms himself by centring his energy and directing his thoughts to how this will keep his altar safe. He’ll stack the rocks, charged with the fire’s energy and painted with protective sigils, in a circle around his little sanctuary. The cairns will be powerful enough to keep out any humans aside from himself, especially ones that don’t mean well. It’ll be alright. He’ll be fine.

He repeats these words to himself even after the fire’s gone and he’s setting up the cairns, but his heart doesn’t slow down until he’s created a strong circle. Finally satisfied in the protection he’s built, Harry ducks beneath the opening of the cave to contemplate his summer altar.

The yellow flower petals from yesterday, now drying, were the perfect finishing touch. Scattered between the other objects along the wall of the cave, they bring everything together visually. Harry’s collected little trinkets he’s found, like small animal bones and interesting rocks, as well as things that carry more importance. He has little vials full of oils, salt, wine, and other common spell ingredients. And candles in fiery colours that smell of summer berries, oranges, and ocean air, which he lights now. He has a deep red cinnamon scented one too, which he doesn’t light, as its smell reminds him much more of winter. He just keeps it there because he likes the aesthetic.

Harry’s quite proud of his altar. It’s taken him a good month to get it just right, partly because had to learn how to put one together first. The ritualization of magic is now something Harry treasures in his practice, because it’s not something he’d observed a lot at home. Many witches Harry knows, especially the older ones, take their gifts for granted. They don’t answer to a higher power or abide by any specific moral code. Often, they use their magic for whatever they feel like. It’s one of many things Harry can’t stand about his former coven.

The first thing Harry did when he moved south was go to the little town’s used bookstore and pick up an antiquated book of beginners' Wicca. His extended family would go mad if they got wind that after disgracing the family, Harry’s now sitting in a cave learning magic from people without magical blood.

Harry thinks this separation between those with and without magical blood is elitist and pretentious. After all, anyone can interact with magical energy, so long as they know what they’re doing. It’s just harder work for some. Witches without magic running through their veins actually have much more respect for magic, in Harry's opinion.

Movement outside the cave knocks Harry out of his reverie. He tenses, ready to run, until his brain has had a chance to process what his eyes caught in his peripheral vision.

“Oh, hello Rhiannon.” Relieved, he holds his hand out to the small black cat entering the cave.

She lingers by the mouth of cave for a moment, rubbing her scent along the wall, before approaching Harry. He scratches her fondly behind the ears and rubs her belly when she rolls on her back for him.

Rhiannon, who Harry had named after one of his favourite songs, begun hanging around his altar almost as soon as he’d started making it. The first couple times he saw her, she kept her distance. He assumed that she was just a curious outdoor cat living in the woods. However, he quickly noticed a pattern; the cat always inched closer to him when he practiced his magic. Eventually, she trusted him enough to approach him. The first time Rhiannon actually entered the cave with him, all Harry’s candles lit spontaneously. At that moment, he was sure she was a familiar and that she had chosen to work with him.

He digs around in one of his pockets, glad he remembered to bring the cat treats. She doesn’t always make an appearance, but the magical energy of casting a spell always seems to draw her in. Rhiannon purrs approvingly, jumping into his lap to eat right out of his hand.

“Did you come to help protect my altar?” he murmurs. Rhiannon answers with a small meow, looking directly into his eyes. He can’t be entirely sure, but he sometimes feels like she understands what he’s saying.

After spending a few more moments stroking the cat, Harry realizes it’s almost dusk. He sets her on the ground and stretches, shaking out the pins and needles that have settled in his thighs. Rhiannon’s gone as quickly as she appeared, off to catch some mice or find a nice burrow to rest in. Whatever it is cat familiars do.

When he blows out the candles, the sense of safety inside the little cave evaporates with the flames. Harry’s not one to be afraid of the dark, but tonight he scrambles out of the cave and starts for home at a near jog. He tells himself that, in all fairness, it’s not the dark he’s afraid of. It’s who might be lurking in the dark.

Halfway through the journey, Harry realizes he’s left both his courage and pride back at his altar. He breaks into a full-on run. Harry’s never been so sure-footed as he is now, his feet nimbly navigating the rocks and sticks on the ground even in the dark. His heart is beating through his chest as he hallucinates shadows at every turn, his stomach churning with unease. He’s actually terrified that he hasn’t had a vision by now, seeing as every warning signal in his body is suddenly telling him that something isn’t right. It’s like the darkness has forced him to abandon his “it’ll be fine” mantra and finally acknowledge the bad feeling that’s been souring in his gut all day.

Then it hits him, and he almost blacks out from the force of it. He stumbles to a stop as his real vision is replaced by another scene. The boy from yesterday is leaning smugly against a tree in this very forest, his dark clothes blending into the night. The index finger of his right hand plays along the length of a small, silver gun that matches the colour of his hair.

A hunter.

Harry’s mouth moves involuntarily around a name he’s never heard before, as if another entity was possessing him. “Zayn.”

And then it’s gone as quickly as it came on, and Harry is left doubled over with his hands on his knees for support, heart stuttering. A hunter…here? In the forest? Harry’s terror is momentarily replaced by confusion as he tries to work out why a hunter would target him. he’s spent the last couple months infusing baked goods with magic to make people’s days better, for fuck’s sake.

Knowing he’s in real danger, he doesn’t waste time trying to catch his breath. He hurtles forward, only to come to a screeching stop once he reaches the clearing where he stopped to pick flowers yesterday.

There he is, leaning against a tree on the far side of the stretch of grass, waiting. He looks exactly the same as he did in the vision – eyes dark with focus, one slim leg bent at the knee with his boot pressed to the tree trunk. Harry only has seconds to berate himself for not running home the long way before the hunter speaks. Fuck his stupid, useless, unhelpful visions that always come too late to matter.

“Good to finally meet you, Styles,” the hunter says quietly as he strolls over to where Harry stands, frozen.

“What do you want?” Harry demands, heart hammering in his chest. It’s a stupid question; Harry knows exactly what he wants.

The hunter laughs, obviously thinking the same thing. “I just want to have a chat.” He motions for Harry to back up with the gun, and Harry does, until he smacks his head into a tree. “Get down.” The hunter motions again, towards the ground this time.

Harry sinks to his knees as he’s told, his thoughts flying a mile a minute despite the ache oozing from the back of his skull. Most of the hunters who are really dangerous are older and continue hunting because they actually enjoy it. He’s heard most of the younger hunters only fulfil their one initiation hunt these days. This hunter is quite young, so there are two options. Either he’s on his first hunt or really fucking loves killing. Harry’s praying for the former.

A burst of adrenaline courses through Harry as he has an idea. “Zayn?” he asks.

The hunter’s smug look slips straight off his face when Harry says his name. This hunter _is_ new. Maybe Harry can talk him out of this.

“You know my name,” the hunter says. It’s more of a statement than a question.

“I know a lot of things about you.” Harry knows it’s a long shot, but he goes for it anyway, staring straight up into the hunter’s eyes. “I know that you’re putting on a show right now. You don’t actually want this.”

“I do want this,” the hunter growls, and Harry feels the cold, metal barrel of the gun against his skull. The chill spreads throughout his whole body, all the way from his head to the soles of his feet.

Harry lowers his eyes to the hunter’s maroon boots and blinks furiously as he begins to cry. He’s so absolutely desperate with the need to stay alive that it feels as if every inch of his body is being pricked with needles, urging him to flee. But he can’t flee. He can’t even think of anything else besides how the bullet will feel when it rips through his head, any second now.

But it doesn’t come.

Harry kneels there, eyes squeezed shut, waiting. But nothing happens. When the hunter speaks again, Harry doesn’t know whether it’s been mere seconds or a whole five minutes.

“What have you done to me?”

Startled, Harry opens his eyes to look into the hunter’s face. It’s rearranged into an expression he can’t quite place, but he knows it’s not the smug confidence of several minutes ago. 

“I haven’t done anything,” Harry whispers.

“Then why can’t I do it?” The hunter’s voice shakes.

Harry allows himself to grasp onto the smallest sliver of hope that he won’t die tonight.

The hunter uses the tip of the gun to move Harry’s long curls out of his face. He seems to consider Harry a while longer before he speaks again. “I expected you to fight back. I thought you would anticipate this.... They told me it would be difficult.”

“And that would make killing me easier? If I struggled to protect myself and gave you a reason to shoot?” Harry’s own words drift into his awareness as if someone else had spoken them. He’s vaguely aware of wetness on his cheeks.

The hunter removes his gun from the side of Harry’s head, but keeps it trained on his face. “You knew my name but...” He trails off, chewing on his bottom lip. “You didn’t _really_ see me coming, did you?”

Harry shakes his head, wondering why that matters.

“Fuck.” The hunter pulls at the silver hair on top of his head. “I just thought that, like…I don’t know.”

The hunter shrinks in on itself. It’s almost as if he loses several inches of height as the last dregs of his confidence slip away. It makes him look like what he really is – a scared young boy in a strange forest after dark. Harry’s so focused on the fact that the gun is now pointing limply at the ground that it takes him a couple seconds to realize that the hunter’s crying too.

He slumps to the ground beside Harry, the gun falling to the ground as he wipes his face. For a terrible second, Harry imagines himself reaching for it; it’s just within his reach. He feels nauseous for even thinking it and forces his eyes to focus on the hunter’s face instead. 

“Zayn?” He tries using the hunter's name again, tentatively.

Under normal circumstances he would feel bad watching this boy fall apart in front of him. But considering that he was one pull of a trigger from being Harry’s murderer about a minute ago, Harry struggles to gather real compassion. He’s also trying to work out whether the danger has passed or not. _Is this some kind of sick game? Or is this hunter really this much of a disaster?_

“I’m a failure,” the hunter says into his lap, the palms of his hands pressing into his eye sockets. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should have just let them kick me out. I should have–” he clears his throat wetly. 

He really must be mad, Harry thinks. He has no idea how to proceed, so he simply asks, “Are you still going to kill me?”

The hunter – Zayn – chuckles miserably. “No. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. This is not what I…” he trails off. Still facing his lap, he squeezes the sides of his head, almost as if it would detach without the constant pressure. “I’m more worried of you killing me now, if I’m honest."

Harry’s stomach clenches as he remembers that he considered doing so only a moment before. He shakes his head, trying to remove the picture from his mind. “So…why are you here?” he asks.

“My parents. My initiation hunt.” Zayn sniffs. “I couldn’t tell them I wasn’t going to do it and disgrace myself and my whole bloodline.”

“Ah.” There’s a beat in which Harry considers _not_ airing his dirty laundry to his almost-murderer. However, he quickly decides that making himself seem more relatable might actually be a smart move in this case. “I actually know what that’s like.”

“You’re a disgrace to your whole bloodline too?”

Harry detects a hint of a smile in Zayn's mouth and decides to proceed. “I got formally disowned, actually. From my family and our coven.”

Zayn visibly perks up at this information. “What happened?”

Harry exhales and tries to sum up the short version. “Every witch is blessed with a special gift when they turn fifteen. As I'm sure you already know, mine is divination. Once the High Coven found out, they wanted me to use it in a way I didn't agree with. When you turn eighteen, you’re supposed to start intensive training to hone your craft. The High Coven told me I either had to follow their orders or get out. So, I got out.” He shrugs.

Harry chances a glance at Zayn, who looks completely taken aback. _It’s working._

“That’s why I didn’t see you, actually. I’ve had literally no training. Most of my visions come quite randomly; I don’t know how to focus them to see anything more than, say, a couple hours in advance. And even then, I have to be focusing on something really simple.”

Harry realizes too late that he may have gone too far. This is information he probably shouldn’t be disclosing to anyone he doesn’t know well, let alone a hunter. _His_ hunter. But for some reason, he can’t stop himself. Maybe it’s because Harry hasn’t talked to anyone aside from Louis about his life before the Forest since he moved here; even Niall doesn’t know he’s a witch. Although it doesn’t have to be a secret, Harry likes it that way most of the time. However, he underestimated the relief he would feel at getting to speak to someone who knows what he’s talking about. Even if that someone is threatening to kill him.

Besides, Zayn could have done it about thirty times by now, if he really wanted to. “That's awful,” Zayn says, more to himself than to Harry. “You live here by yourself now?”

“I did.” When Harry sees one of Zayn’s eyebrows quirk up in confusion, he explains. “Well, I can’t keep hanging around here now that you know where I live, can I?”

Zayn looks even more sullen. “I’m not going to hunt you. I give you my word.”

“You might be shocked to hear that I don’t trust your word for a second," Harry says, irritated. "And I can’t cast protection spells around me literally everywhere I go. You know where my altar is, which you probably followed me to from my house, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been to my place of work either.”

Zayn is silent while he processes Harry's statement, shivering as dusk brings the cool night air.

It alarms Harry that he feels compelled to offer Zayn a hug. He just looks so laughably forlorn compared to his initial bravado.

“Fair enough,” Zayn says, after his moment of thought. “You probably want to go home now, yeah?”

“I would like nothing more,” Harry answers icily. “Except _you’re_ going to lead the way, and _I’m_ going to carry this.” Harry snatches the silver gun off the ground before Zayn can even protest.

And that’s how they make their way back to the edge of the forest by Harry’s cottage. Zayn takes occasional direction when he loses his way in the dark and Harry guides him from behind, pretending he would know how to shoot this thing if it came to it.

Harry expects Zayn to say something when they reach the cottage, although he’s not sure what. Instead, Zayn turns onto the road without a word, leaving Harry standing on the edge of his property holding the gun. Harry watches the hunter walk, head hanging, until he can no longer distinguish him from the darkness.

Harry scurries inside, locking every door and window at rapid speed. He knows it's irrational to lock up a house that’s already been protected magically, but it makes him feel better somehow. As he tucks the gun away in an old metal lockbox he keeps under his bed, he realizes he'll have to stay on his property until Louis returns. Harry's brain feels too exhausted, too scrambled, to even think about his next move without his cousin's help.

After checking each lock again and looking out each window twice, Harry swallows a dose of Benadryl. He knows he won’t sleep otherwise, not with all this fear coursing through his body. Plus, he figures that if he’s somehow going to get murdered tonight, he’d rather not see it coming. Bitterly, he supposes he’s finally found the exception to his ability to sleep anywhere, under any circumstance.

Sooner than he thinks is possible, he’s snoring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the scenes in this chapter is a reference to a piece of [fanart](https://lirrynouis.tumblr.com/post/130843811825) that inspired this entire work so of course I have to link it!
> 
> Image reference for [Zayn's revolver](http://www.francolini.com/images/guns/83066sa/right.jpg)


	3. brown skin and lemon over ice

It’s a bright, clear morning, one that makes Zayn want to be outside even if he doesn’t know what to do once he’s there. The grass and leaves shine with morning dew, reflecting the sun’s lazy rays back into the sky. The only sounds are the peaceful chirps of birds and the occasional buzzing from a wayward hornet.

Zayn’s conscious mind has no idea why he’s outside at half eight to make these observations. Nor does it know why he’s parked his car down the road from Styles’s cottage, far enough away so that he can remain hidden, but close enough to peak at Styles' property through the trees. Zayn can’t even remember the last time he was dressed and presentable before ten.

But here he is.

And there Styles is, too, reading the morning paper with a cup of tea at a little deck table on the patio. In a pair of striped pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt, he looks more relaxed than Zayn would expect him to be after last night. Zayn notices for the first time that Styles has quite a lot of tattoos littering his arms. Maybe not as many as Zayn has, but it’s hard to tell from this distance. 

All reason tells Zayn he should be ashamed to show his face here again. And he is. He’s ashamed for letting himself down, for completing his training and coming all the way here, only to chicken out in the final moment. Even worse, he’s let his family down, practically spit on the Maliks’ legacy.

Zayn sighs. He just can’t hunt the bloody witch now, not after watching him tremble and cry like a cornered animal. A cornered animal who collects flower petals and has his own mum and dad, even if they are evil. Everyone was right all along. Zayn has always been too soft.

This all puts Zayn in quite the predicament. He’s stuck, really, with no way to move backwards or forwards. He’s already fucked the hunt beyond repair even if he did have a change of heart and want to complete it; Styles knows who he is _and_ has his revolver. However, Zayn can’t return home without completing the hunt. God only knows what would happen.

He'd been agonizing over last night's events since they happened, sleeping only a couple hours at most. Despite all that thinking, the only thing he sorted out is that he desperately needs to talk to someone else about it. However, he can’t exactly ring home if a) he’s technically not allowed and b) breaking the news to his family is one of the things he needs help working out. What would he even say? _“Hey mum, hey dad, turns out I’m complete disappointment. Just wondering whether you hate me, and if so, what I should do now?”_

Zayn doesn’t even know if Liam would understand, as he’d started and finished his hunt last autumn, no problem. He may be Zayn’s best friend, but Liam can also be an obnoxious overachiever.

Zayn knows he’ll need to think through his options and make a plan later. But right now, a lethal combination of shame and anxiety have choked out his ability to think. Continuing to cycle through his worries over and over again is not going to help him. What he needs right now is to get his mind off his problems, to make some connection with something happening outside his own head.

It just so happens that the only person Zayn can turn to right now, a person who might understand where he’s coming from, is Harry Styles. The ridiculous nature of that statement is not lost on Zayn, but it is what it is.

He rubs his knuckles against his jawline, absent-mindedly soothing himself with the scratchy stubble of his beard. Through the trees, he watches Styles take a sip from his tea. He pulls the cup away from his mouth quickly, having burned his tongue. Styles actually scowls at the cup before going back to his paper, sending it the same look Zayn gives his dogs when they clamber into his bed before sunrise. Seeing Styles do something so privately silly like that, unaware that he's being watched, makes Zayn feel bad. He shouldn’t be spying on him like this. In the end, that’s what it takes for Zayn to finalize his decision.

He straightens up out of the Bentley, nervously pulling on his simple black t-shirt. His shoulders tense as he walks towards the cottage, waiting for the moment when Styles notices him and chucks his teacup at him. Or worse, a curse.

Styles doesn’t chuck anything though. When he notices Zayn, he watches him approach from over his newspaper as if Zayn’s a very unwelcome bug. Oddly, he doesn’t move. 

“You okay?” Zayn asks when he gets close enough.

Styles doesn’t respond, just gives him the strangest look.

 _Fair enough_ , Zayn supposes. He hesitates for a moment, but without any protest from Styles, continues up to the patio. The second he lifts his foot to step onto it, he’s propelled backwards with a familiar feeling of agony. He drops to his knees, gasping for breath and cursing out loud at his own stupidity.

“Thought you would have remembered that one,” Styles says casually, eyes back on his paper.

“Yeah but…you’re…” Zayn wheezes, hands over his stomach. He points towards where Styles sits.

“That’s because the spell was cast to keep _you_ out, not me.”

Okay. Maybe Zayn shouldn’t have come.

When Zayn doesn’t respond, Styles sighs and folds his paper closed. “What do you want?”

Zayn takes another minute to catch his breath. “I…I don’t know, actually.”

Styles scowls. “Wonderful. In that case, you can fuck back off to wherever it is you came from. I need to find myself a new place so that I don’t have to hole up in my house and worry about you getting brave. Braver than you were last night, at least.” He sips his tea, which is apparently now an appropriate temperature.

“Obviously I’m not going to hurt you,” Zayn reasons. “I can’t get any closer to you. And you have my revolver.”

Styles scowls. “Excellent. In that case, you can fuck back off to wherever it is you came from. I'm busy looking for a temporary place so that I don’t have to hole up in my house and worry about you getting brave. Braver than you were last night, at least.” He sips his tea, which is apparently now an appropriate temperature.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I can’t get any closer to you. And you have my revolver," Zayn reasons.

Styles scoffs. “How do I know you don’t have another one? You had a gun to my head less than twenty-four hours ago, and now I’m supposed to expect you to drop by for a cup of tea?”

Zayn opens his mouth to respond but can’t think of a valid argument in the face of Styles’s raw anger. Everything he’s said is true, and Zayn’s not sure what he expected by coming here. A hug? A heart-to-heart? He’s fucked up both of their lives, but he can’t expect that to be something they’ll bond over.

He’s saved from having to respond by a vibration in his pocket. Zayn sits cross-legged at the edge of the patio, mindful not to put even one toe too close. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and stares at for several seconds, knowing that screening the call won’t do any good. As Styles watches him curiously, Zayn takes a deep breath and accepts the call.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Zayn.” Simon’s honeyed voice seeps through the receiver. “Have you made any progress since we last spoke?”

“Erm...no, not really.” Zayn speaks slowly, trying to give himself time to come up with a story that Simon might believe. 

“And why not?” Simon’s sharp tone pierces straight through him.

“I’ve been watching his house, but he hasn’t left over the past day. I know he’s home because the lights go on at night, but he doesn’t leave. Maybe he doesn’t have a job, or doesn’t like summer weather, or something….” Zayn trails off. He glances up and is surprised to see the corner of Styles’s mouth twitch up in amusement.

Despite the lame excuse, Simon seems to buy it. He’s pacified, at least. “Call us when you get something,” he says.

“Will do.”

Zayn hangs up, adrenaline still coursing through his body. He’s safe. For now.

“Who was that?” Harry asks.

“The head of the Council,” Zayn answers, tossing his mobile to the side.

“Why did you lie to him?”

“What was I supposed to do? Tell him, ‘Oh yeah, he’s sat in front of me right now reading the paper?’ That would go over well,” Zayn answers sarcastically.

“But you didn’t even tell him you followed me in the woods.” Styles looks suspicious. “Why?”

Zayn feels like it should be obvious at this point, but he clarifies anyway. “If I’m not going to hunt you, why bother telling them I even got that far? It’s getting their hopes up for nothing.”

Styles looks straight into Zayn’s eyes, as if trying to see past them into his brain. It’s uncomfortable, but Zayn forces himself to return the stare.

“Are you _really_ not going to kill me though?”

Zayn sighs. Styles seems a bit thick. “As I thought I made clear...no.”

Styles narrows his eyes. “Prove it.”

Zayn throws his hands up in the air in frustration. “How do you want me to prove that I’m _not_ going to hunt you?!”

“Tell me about you. Fraternize with the enemy a little. Reveal some secrets that would make your council guy want to kick you out.” Styles sets his newspaper down, crosses his legs, and turns to where Zayn is sat on the edge of the grass.

Having his full attention is intimidating. Styles – or rather, Harry, as Zayn supposes he should start calling him – has quite a presence. The dimples on his cheeks appear easily and often, but so do the frown lines between his eyes. He’s taller and certainly broader than Zayn. And now that Harry’s up close, one arm hanging off the back of his chair, Zayn can make out the fuzzy outlines of more tattoos beneath his t-shirt. Numerous rings on his fingers glint in the sunlight and his nails are painted a deep navy blue.

Zayn speaks, realizing he’s been staring a second too long. “His name is Simon.”

“Whose name is Simon?”

“The Council guy.”

“Oh. Is he always poking around in your personal life, telling your family how they should raise you?”

“Yeah, actually,” Zayn says, surprised.

“I’ve got one of those as well,” Harry admits, folding his hands behind his head. “Ben, the head of our High Coven. He’s the one that convinced my mum to throw me out. See, witches and hunters aren’t all that different.” He smiles, and there are those dimples again.

 _Most of you have made money and names for yourselves through abuse of power, rather than hard work_ , Zayn thinks. Since he can't say that out loud, he shrugs.

“What makes us so different, then?”

Zayn tries to phrase his thoughts in a milder way. “Hunters are...honest. And loyal. We live by a moral code.”

“You kill people, Zayn.” Harry leans forwards, incredulous, the gold cross around his neck swinging gently. “Your job is to kill people. It’s nothing to be high and mighty about.”

“Someone has to do it! We’re just keeping the peace. We hunt–”

“Murder!” Harry interjects.

“Fine!” Zayn throws his hands up in surrender. “Murder.” The word feels foreign in his mouth, too harsh. “But we only…do _that_ ,” Zayn says uncomfortably, unable to bring himself to use that word again, “to people who do bad things.”

“You were going to kill _me_.”

This time, Zayn has to look away from Harry’s unrelenting stare. Instead, he pretends to be very interested in a waxy piece of grass he’s rolling between his fingers.

“What have I done that’s so bad?” Harry demands. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know that most witches don’t use their power in an honest way,” Zayn says, more to the ground than to Harry.

“So it never mattered what I was really like, then, did it?" Harry asks, his voice taking on an accusatory tone. "When you set out on your hunt, all that mattered was the assumption that witches are evil. Never mind the fact that I left my coven because I have a sense of right and wrong, just like you. In your mind, I deserved to die because your people hate my people, and that’s just how it works.”

Zayn feels his ears go red. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Just something to think about,” Harry finishes.

They both sit in silence for a moment, Zayn unsure whether Harry’s still watching him or not. He’s wondering whether he should leave when Harry speaks again.

“Tell me something else. Something juicy.”

Zayn looks up at Harry, surprised to see him smirking. Zayn, who’d been expecting Harry to chase him off his property any second, feels like he has whiplash.

“Erm….” Zayn ruffles his silvery hair, letting the sunlight catch it. He’s not eager to see Harry’s face twisted into that look of contempt again, so he thinks hard. “Simon ordered me to target you specifically. They kind of set it up for me, which is unusual. They must really want you out of the picture; they seem to think you’re dangerous.”

“Me?!” Harry says, with a sudden, bark-like laugh that’s somehow both ugly and endearing. “If they’d done their research, you’d all know I had been disowned! What am I missing here? I could not be minding my business any more if I tried.”

Honestly, Zayn’s been wondering the same thing since last night. Hunters, by definition, are usually pretty good at finding people and digging up information. Zayn’s not sure how Simon’s personal web of informants could have missed such a big detail.

“Well, we don’t like diviners in general; they're too powerful. Besides, it makes for a really dangerous hunt if your opponent can reliably predict your movements. The idea is to…erm…” Zayn shifts uncomfortably, “…hunt them before they’ve finished their training. Before they get too good at it.” Zayn understands the logic and necessity in this method, but explaining it to someone else makes it sound harsher than he'd realized.

“In other words, murder them before they’ve actually done anything wrong,” says Harry icily.

“But you said yourself that they would only agree to train you if you used your visions to help them do evil shit!” Zayn says, impassioned. “If that’s how it works, it’s fair for us to hunt diviners before that can happen!”

Harry leans back in his chair, nodding slowly. “Touché.”

Neither of them says anything for another long moment. Zayn fishes a cigarette and lighter out of his back pocket. He’s going to offer Harry one as well, but he shakes his head before the words are even on Zayn’s lips. Zayn takes a long drag; Harry wrinkles his nose and looks away.

“I need you to know that we’re not all bad, yeah?” Harry says quietly. He looks out towards the trees, over Zayn’s head.

Zayn grants him a small nod. 

“Most members of the High Coven are greedy and morally bankrupt, yes, but that’s not specific to witches. There’s plenty evil to go around. Look at any government. Look at the hunters who make a career out of murder, who kill for sport when they don’t have to.” Harry’s eyes come back to rest on Zayn’s face. He raises an eyebrow, almost as if he’s expecting a challenge.

Zayn instinctively wants to argue, but he can’t. He knows Harry’s right. They’re both right, about some things.

“Loads of witches are regular, kind people; you just don’t hear about them. Most don’t even get caught up in the High Coven’s bullshit anyway, especially the ones who have abilities that the Coven can’t abuse. Like healing or animal communication. Ben doesn’t give a shit if you can talk to your cat.”

Harry smiles, and Zayn returns one of his own. He flicks a bit of ash onto the ground and resolves to steer the conversation to something they can’t argue about.

“What was it that Ben wanted you to do? The thing that made you leave, I mean?”

Harry nods to himself, as if he was waiting for Zayn to ask. “Each witch is expected to contribute to the Coven in some way. In most cases, a person will decide for themselves what that will look like. But diviners are rare; I’m was one of only two in the entire northwest.” Harry sighs. “The other one is getting on in years, so Ben wanted me to apprentice with him and take over his position.”

“And he does…what exactly?” Zayn wonders out loud.

“I believe the non-magical term would be insider trading,” Harry laughs.

Zayn gasps. “See, that’s exactly–”

“I know.” Harry rolls his eyes and holds one hand up to stop Zayn before he gets going again. “Ben’s got people set up to watch outcomes of stocks, politics, major world events, and so on. If someone divines something that would affect the Coven negatively, Ben works to change it. Or at least minimize its impact.” 

Zayn doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. “I thought that if you had a vision, it was certain to come true.”

“Visions show you future events, as long as the people involved continue on their current path.” Harry laughs, with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Whoever trained you is a shit teacher.”

Zayn chooses to ignore the jab. “Did your mum and dad not fight against Ben?” 

Harry shrugs. “Not really. My dad was never around. My stepdad does whatever my mum wants. And my mum….” Harry appears to choose his words carefully. “My mum is just, like…really into traditions and obeying authority. She was upset when they told her I had to leave of course, but she's never questioned anything the High Coven does. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected her to start then. And my sister’s just as bad. Complete robots, all of them.”

Zayn detects a hint of disappointment pass over Harry’s face, and hopes that he’s not a mirror image of Harry in a year. A nobody, living in the middle of nowhere without family.

“That’s why she occasionally sends money and supplies through my cousin,” Harry continues. “She feels horrible, but not enough to do the right thing.”

“I think I saw him yesterday. Lou, right?”

Harry looks startled. “You really have been spying on me, haven’t you?”

Zayn shrugs.

“His name’s Louis, yeah.” Harry’s face settles into a more neutral expression.

Zayn's still sitting at the edge of Harry's patio, far enough away so that they almost have to raise their voices to be heard. And yet, he thinks he’s growing on Harry. Maybe. When Harry looks at him now it’s not with distaste, at least. He looks almost soft, despite the sharp cheekbones and jaw that frame his face.

“What?” Harry asks. 

“Huh?”

“You looked like you were thinking very hard about something.”

Zayn's feels his ears go pink. He shakes his head and snuffs his cigarette out on the ground, which earns him another nose wrinkle from Harry.

“I just space out a lot.” Zayn pauses before he speaks again, not wanting to cross a line. “And I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Thanks,” Harry says with a sad smile.

They fall silent, neither quite sure what to say now. Zayn lowers himself onto his back to watch the clouds meander across the sky, and Harry goes back to his paper.

They're alone, together.

\--

Harry’s surprised at first, when Zayn turns up again the next day. A week later, after they've spent a good portion of each day together, the surprise has worn off. In fact, Harry comes to expect Zayn, to depend on his company, even. He initially vows not to let his guard down, as that's only common sense. But it’s quite hard when Zayn turns up every day uninvited, looking like a fashion model.

Take today, for example. Zayn's lounging around in a pair of light-washed ripped jeans and a white Louis Vuitton jumper, both of which are at serious risk of acquiring grass stains. Harry would take the piss out of him if he didn't look so good. 

They talk every day, mostly about surface level things. What music they like, where they’ve been on holiday, and so on. Harry’s not sure what that means. Are they friends? _Can_ he be friends with someone he met while a gun was pressed to his head?

Each time Zayn ignores an incoming call or answers in order to make an excuse, Harry chooses to forget their inauspicious meeting a little more.

Harry's let Zayn hang around for almost the entirety of this particular day. They haven’t talked the whole time, though, which is typical. While Harry studies his spell books at the table, Zayn will often entertain himself on the other side of the spell barrier. On most days he'll lay on the grass to write or sketch, a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

Zayn always looks content, but Harry can’t stop feeling bad when he’s not actively entertaining him. He’s sure that if Zayn had anything else to do other than laze around Harry’s garden, he’d be doing it.

The realization that Zayn’s just said something snaps Harry out of his musings. “Sorry?”

“I was just saying that it’s funny how my favourite book as a kid was _Harry Potter_. Because it’s about witches, and all.”

Harry smiles when Zayn’s ears go red. It’s cute. “They let you read that as a kid?”

“Absolutely not," Zayn laughs. "I had to sneak it from the school library. My parents would hunt _me_ if they found out, so I never got to go to see any of the films or anything like that.”

Harry lifts his sunglasses off his eyes, sizing Zayn up from the bottom of his trainers to the tips of the silver hair he’s always fussing with. This next question could make or break them. “What house are you?”

“Ravenclaw,” Zayn says, without missing a beat.

Harry lets out a fake sigh of relief. “I was worried you’d say Slytherin. I’m a Gryffindor.”

Zayn snorts. “Gryffindors and Slytherins only hate each other because they’re so alike. You’re both know-it-all’s who need constant attention.”

“Well, excuse me!” Harry says in mock offense, hand to his chest.

Zayn laughs. “My best mate Liam’s a Slytherin, but he’s alright.” He pauses, pretending to appraise Harry. “I suppose you’re alright too.”

"Whatever." Harry rolls his eyes. “Our magic isn’t as dramatic as _Harry Potter_ magic anyway, so your parents shouldn’t have worried. It’s less about wands and more about directing the energy around to do what you want it to.”

“You don’t use wands at all?” Zayn asks, looking surprised.

“I mean, no one’s going to tell you that you can’t,” Harry shrugs. “But they’re not required for magic, nor are they all that common.” Harry grins, suddenly feeling sort of reckless. “Don’t you want to _see_ some magic?”

Despite the late-afternoon sun beating down on their necks, his proposal results in a metaphorical temperature drop. Zayn immediately shoots up from where he was sat on the ground, already taking a cautionary step back. “No.”

His reaction amuses Harry as much as it irritates him. What does he think Harry’s going to do, turn him into a frog? He just wants to have a little fun. And to prove to Zayn that all his notions about the evils of magic, or whatever it is he thinks, are wrong.

Okay, so maybe he is a know-it-all who needs too much attention.

“I’m not going to curse you,” Harry says, bordering on a whine.

Zayn, looking like he might bolt, says nothing.

If he won't agree outright to play with magic, Harry has another idea. And, if executed correctly, it’ll kill two birds with one stone. If Zayn can prove that he’s trustworthy, Harry will return the favour.

“Will you at least come in for tea?” Harry asks, putting on an air of innocence.

“Huh?” Zayn looks at Harry as if he’s just asked for his hand in marriage.

“Harry speaks slowly, making a show of pantomiming each phrase. “Will you...come inside…and eat...with me?”

He was trying to make Zayn laugh. It doesn’t work.

Zayn narrows his eyes and gestures between them. “But the spell…?”

Harry feels the same nerves as Zayn, but he tries to keep it light. “See, that’s the thing. If you truly mean me no harm, you’ll be able to pass through. But if you’re lying…” Harry shrugs, feeling his heart flutter against his ribcage.

He’s not sure what he’ll do if even a little part of Zayn still wants to hurt him. He'd have to worry for his physical safety for the rest of his life, really, especially now that Zayn knows so much about him. He’d also have to give up his little oasis here in the Forest after all.

Harry wishes that these were the only things making his stomach flip. But, stupidly, incredibly, Harry’s keeps catching himself wondering how smooth the skin might be on Zayn's cheek, right above his beard. Or what his cologne smells like, because Harry’s convinced that Zayn’s the type to have a signature scent. He's secretly watched Zayn sketch comic book characters over his shoulder all week, intrigued even though he couldn’t name a one of them. Something about watching this man, who drives a Bentley and wears a Rolex, lie in the garden drawing superheroes makes Harry’s heart fit to burst.

Being separated by the spell barrier all week has been somewhat tortuous for Harry, despite how risky and nonsensical this attraction is. Harry can already picture Louis telling him to get a therapist.

“I wasn’t trying to kill you the last time it zapped me; why wouldn’t it be different now?” Zayn asks, looking entirely unconvinced.

“You might have thought you’d made up your mind not to kill me then, but the spell knows your intentions better than you do,” Harry explains. “At the very least, you had some lingering doubts about what you were going to do.”

Yeah, imaginary Louis is right, Harry thinks. He does need a therapist.

However fucked up Harry may be for wanting to cook a meal with his would-be murderer, he feels real disappointment when Zayn starts backing away.

“Pleeease...come on,” Harry begs. He barely resists the urge to stamp his foot.

“You’re asking me to stay for tea at yours?” Zayn asks, walking backwards, as if he’s somehow not understanding.

“Am I not speaking English?” Harry demands, exasperated.

Zayn turns around and heads off down the lane, shaking his head.

Harry feels the disappointment, desperation, and now loneliness, all those ugly emotions he hates, permeate deep into every cell of his body. He has Niall, sure, but that’s only one person in this stupid village where no one stays for more than two weeks at a time. He’s got Louis, too, but barely. It’s just not enough. Harry suddenly feels like he’s being possessed by his need for connection, a connection that's about to slip right out of his grasp. His heart aches with the possibility that he’s pushed it too far. That Zayn could drive away for good.

“Zayn, wait!”

Harry only realizes he’s passed through the spell barrier after he’s already done it. 

When Zayn looks over his shoulder to see Harry standing on his side, he freezes. Harry does the same, feeling exposed. They both stare, daring the other to make the first move.

Harry, feeling like he should probably finish what he started, stretches his hand out to Zayn, palm up. Zayn’s gaze moves from Harry’s eyes to Harry’s hand, back up the road to his car, and finally to Harry’s face again.

Harry knows that it would be anything but simple for Zayn to accept his invitation. But if what Harry’s learned about him over the past week is true, Zayn’s just as alone as he is. Maybe more.

After what seems like an eternity, Zayn walks slowly back in the direction of the cottage. Hesitantly, he places his hand in Harry’s.

Zayn’s scorching to the touch, somehow, but Harry doesn’t pull away. He feels desperate to trace the intricate mandala on the back of Zayn’s hand with his own fingers, but he knows he shouldn't. He forces himself to look up instead, straight into Zayn’s deep brown eyes.

Zayn smells of the sea and fresh citrus. Slightly of smoke, which Harry hates. It’s heavenly.

“Are you sure it won’t hurt?” Zayn asks.

“No.” At the worried look on Zayn’s face, Harry clarifies. “Only you can be sure of that.”

Zayn nods, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. “Lead me.”

Harry does so rather briskly, worried that Zayn might change his mind last second. Zayn winces as he feels the soles of his trainers touch down on the patio rather than grass. He opens his eyes in shock when he feels no pain, his grimace transforming into a smile.

Harry smiles back at him, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering out of control. A second too late, he realizes that he’s still holding Zayn’s hand in his own. He drops it hastily and wipes the clammy sweat it had accumulated onto his trousers. Zayn laughs at him, giddy with his success, and follows Harry into the sitting room.

“This is...quaint,” Zayn observes as he looks around the room. He reaches down to one of Harry's end tables and rolls a doily between his fingers.

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” Harry says, halfway through the door to the kitchen.

“I mean, doilies?”

When Harry looks over his shoulder, he sees Zayn sniffing at the fresh flowers on another end table. Harry turns and leans against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed.

“The flowers are mine; the decorations aren’t. It’s rented. From a sweet old lady, if you must know.”

“Does that excuse the paintings on the wall too?” Zayn tries to look innocent, but there's a smile playing around his eyes.

Zayn must know that they're Harry’s own paintings, as they’re quite abstract and newer than most of the other items in the room.

Harry rolls his eyes and chooses to let this one slide. “I hope you’re fine with Italian,” he calls once he’s back in the kitchen. He ducks down into the refrigerator to grab a jar of tomato sauce.

“Sure.”

Harry thinks he hears a body sink onto the sofa. “Are you really going to relax out there while I’m in here making you a meal?” Harry asks, amused, as he shifts through different types of pastas in the cabinet.

When Harry turns back around, he finds Zayn in the doorway looking sheepish.

“You don't want me in the kitchen. Mum’s banned me from ours.”

“Fine then, go entertain yourself,” Harry says, making a shooing motion.

Harry hums to himself as he does his best work. To spruce up the pasta sauce, he adds some fresh ingredients, an almost undetectable pinch of rosemary, and a little bit of magic. He can hear Zayn watching some detective show in the other room, and feels happy to finally have him close.

Harry feels like a mum by the time he’s tossing a salad in his apron and announcing that tea's on the table. Especially when he has to call for Zayn twice.

“Sorry. The show was just finishing,” Zayn mumbles, looking around the small kitchen.

Harry follows his gaze, biting back laughter when he realizes that Zayn’s judging the décor again. 

He looks from the decorative red roosters hung along the wall above the sink, to the rooster draw pulls, and finally the rooster-themed napkins. They cover the whole kitchen, basically. Harry has half-heartedly considered redecorating with something more age-appropriate, but he finds the décor charming. It feels cosy, lived in. Plus, he won't be here forever. Hopefully.

“What’s with the...?” Zayn says, gesturing vaguely around the room.

“I don’t know.” Harry hands Zayn a bowl each of spaghetti and salad. “Old ladies really like chickens, I guess?”

Zayn raises an eyebrow as if he’s dying to comment on Harry’s taste level or lack thereof, but he doesn’t. He seats himself at the kitchen table, eyes widening as he takes a bite of the spaghetti.

“This is garlicky. I thought you couldn’t have garlic.”

Harry nearly chokes on a piece of lettuce as he snorts. “That’s vampires.”

The tips of Zayn’s ears go red, and it makes Harry want to laugh again. But he doesn’t want to embarrass Zayn, not now that he’s finally got him here in his kitchen. He averts his eyes in order to regain his composure.

“This is really excellent though,” Zayn says, once he’s recovered. “I didn’t even think I wanted spaghetti before you put it in front of me. What’s in the sauce?”

Harry crosses his arms and stares at Zayn for longer than appropriate, trying to gauge what his reaction will be if he tells him the truth.

Zayn stares back, a question on the tip of his tongue.

“Garlic, onion, Italian seasoning, a pinch of rosemary….” Harry pauses for a couple seconds, still unsure. “...And a bit of magic.”

“What?!” Zayn’s fork clatters on the table as he pushes his chair back. “You said you weren’t going to curse me!”

“I haven’t cursed you, calm down.”

Zayn’s fists are clenched, and his eyes are darting around the room, seemingly looking for the best escape.

“It was a spell for luck," Harry explains. "If you infuse food with a little spell for love or luck, or something like that, it always tastes better.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Zayn’s voice rises in a mix of anger and fear. “I haven’t seen _you_ take a bite!”

Harry rolls his eyes and swallows a forkful of his spaghetti. “See? Perfectly safe. Not poisoned.”

“What if you put something in mine and not yours?” Zayn asks suspiciously, although much of the tension seems to have left his body. “I watch movies, you know.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Harry reaches across the table to wrap a mouthful of spaghetti from Zayn’s bowl around his fork. He chews and swallows deliberately, then raises his eyebrows, daring Zayn to protest again. 

“What if you poisoned both of them, but you have an antidote?”

Harry groans, but Zayn’s smiling this time.

“Eat your food,” Harry says, exasperated. All things considered, that turned out quite well. 

Zayn sits back down, seemingly convinced, and takes a cautionary bite. “So…what did you do to it?”

“I charged the rosemary with some magical energy before I put it in the sauce.” And he did a good job, if he does say so himself. Over the past couple months, he’s come a long way from his initial diet of cereal and pot noodles.

“What’s the rosemary for? I can barely taste it.”

“I only put a little because it’s kind of strong, but like most herbs, it can be used for loads of stuff. I was thinking about luck when I added it.” Harry shrugs. “I’m trying to learn more about kitchen witchcraft.”

Zayn’s raises his eyebrows as he sucks in a long noodle. “What’s kitchen witchcraft?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. You’ve got sauce in your beard.”

Zayn dabs at his face with a rooster napkin, and Harry makes a concentrated effort not to laugh.

“I didn’t know there were different kinds of witchcraft.”

Zayn's curiosity gives Harry another in, should he wish to take it. He knows he shouldn’t push Zayn too far, but it's hard to stop himself. It feels too good to be able to share things again – a meal, his magic, himself – with someone new. Plus, he rationalizes, he might as well keep going while he’s got his foot in the door. 

“Are you sure about not wanting to actually _do_ some magic?” he asks, trying hard to sound casual. He doesn't want the desperate hope that fills his chest to spill into his words too.

Harry triumphantly watches Zayn’s mouth open and close as his curiosity wages an internal war with what he's been taught about the dangers of magic.

“What do you mean, ‘do’ some magic?” Zayn asks eventually.

“I mean, _do_ it. You can, you know. You don’t have to have magical blood to do magic. Those of us who have it are just more powerful.” Harry winks.

“I don’t know….” Zayn says, looking dangerously close to bolting again.

“Please,” Harry implores him, without a touch of humour in his voice this time. Zayn can’t leave now, he just can’t.  
Zayn looks down, fiddling with his jumper. “Fine.”

Harry takes a deep, even breath to contain the overwhelming waves of relief and excitement that follow. It’s nice for once, to be the teacher. To have someone looking to him for direction. To be needed.

“Okay, so this is really simple,” Harry starts.

Zayn’s eyes don’t leave Harry’s face as he talks. He’s hanging on his every word, like he’s about to ride a bicycle for the first time and is terrified of falling off.

“I’m going to teach you how to centre yourself. It’s good to do it when you wake up in the morning, before you start a spell, or any time you need to focus to get something done. Basically, centring gets rid of distractions and collects all your energy so that you can focus it into whatever you want to do. Make sense?”

Zayn nods.

“It’ll be easiest if you relax your body and close your eyes.”

Zayn does so. Almost.

“I can see you peeking,” Harry reprimands.

Zayn puffs out an annoyed breath but shuts both eyes tight this time, hands resting on his thighs.

“Now, I want you to imagine a little ball of light inside you. Like tennis ball size, whatever colour you think suits you best. Start taking slow, deep breaths.”

“I feel like I’m in a yoga class I didn’t sign up for.”

Harry narrows his eyes, waiting for Zayn's moment of insolence to pass before he continues. “Every time you take a deep breath, imagine the little ball of light growing a bit bigger and stronger, until it fills up your whole torso. Then let it fill up your arms and legs and head. Once you’ve focused all your energy, you’ll feel really nice, I promise.”

“Shhh, stop talking,” Zayn smiles, eyes still closed.

Harry watches him while he breathes and is relieved to see that Zayn is actually doing it properly. He matches his own breathing to the rise and fall of Zayn’s chest, and takes advantage of this moment to _really_ look at Zayn closely for the first time.

He takes in the various tattoos covering Zayn’s arms, wondering what the story is behind each. He wants to ask who the woman is on Zayn’s right bicep, but he figures it’s probably not his place. Harry's gaze makes its way from the wisps of Zayn’s silvery hair, down to his slender fingers, and back up to the tips of his extra-long eyelashes. He looks so at peace that Harry barely breathes, doesn’t move, until Zayn does himself.

“So that’s really magic?” Zayn asks, slowly opening his eyes.

“Mhm.” Harry nods

Zayn shakes his head, chuckling to himself.

“What?” Harry asks.

“It’s nothing, I…” Zayn shakes his head again, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s just funny because I do something similar all the time, actually. My sister taught me. It helps with my anxiety. I guess some things about us really are quite similar,” he laughs.

Harry smirks. He loves being right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to put a disclaimer here that irl, Liam is DEFINITELY a Hufflepuff, not a Slytherin. But Harry and Zayn being Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, respectively, is accurate in the fic and irl. Feel free to argue with me about it either here or on tumblr lmao.
> 
> In case you're unfamiliar with the setting of the New Forest, here are some cottages I used as inspiration for Harry's. Although it doesn't actually look like either of these in my head, I used the patio from [this one](https://www.newforestcottages.co.uk/holiday-cottages/beecroft/681) and the thatched roof from [this one](https://www.newforestcottages.co.uk/holiday-cottages/little-cottage/307), as well as the general vibes from these and a ton more. There was another one I wanted to link that had this wonderfully awful kitchen full of rooster décor (as referenced in this chapter), but they removed their listing recently. :(
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. and hoping someday i'm open

This tenuous friendship between Zayn and Harry has developed spontaneously thus far. Sometimes Harry mentions when he’ll be around the next day, other times Zayn shows up whenever he feels like it and hopes that Harry will be home. Most of the time, Harry is.

Unfortunately, this is not one of those times.

Over the past couple hours, Zayn’s smoked, written a shitty poem, read a comic book, smoked again, done some sketches of the comic book's characters, and smoked a third time.

Twilight begins to fall all around him. Fresh out of amusements, Zayn ignites the flame of his lighter and snaps it shut over and over. He doesn’t even have Harry’s number to ask if he’ll be coming home tonight. Which is quite stupid, now that he thinks about it.

Over the course of the first hour he spent waiting, Zayn convinced himself that Harry had cast some weird love spell on him. That would explain why he’s hanging around like some infatuated, pathetic preteen. After passing into the third hour, he’d had to admit that that wasn't the reason.

The real truth is that Harry inviting Zayn inside had been intensely intimate, in a way that would only make sense to someone from their world. It had been such a simple invitation, and yet Zayn could feel something shift when he accepted. It was an acknowledgement that this man -- the man who should be his sworn enemy -- is Zayn's only anchor right now. If he didn't have Harry, Zayn would be floating through his days untethered, without a single person to turn to. This realization had cemented an undeniable connection between them

It doesn't hurt that Harry’s _really_ fit. Zayn sighs at himself for thinking it, but it would be ridiculous to pretend it wasn’t a factor.

After going home the previous night, part of Zayn was scared that this was all some long con, that he would end up looking like a fool in the end. Or dead. But, Zayn rationalized, Harry’s the hunted, not the hunter. Hunting is supposed to be Zayn’s job. And if Zayn no longer has any interest in doing his job, Harry shouldn’t have any interest in hurting him. Hypothetically.

Speaking of his job…Zayn thought it would be hard enough to break the news to his family that he wasn’t going to complete his hunt. How would he _ever_ explain the fact that he engaged in multiple forms of magic? And how long until the Council realizes something’s amiss and alerts his family? If they come looking for him soon, will Zayn be ready to explain what’s happened?

Zayn’s mind starts chasing the answers to these questions every thirty minutes or so. It’s hard to stop it, but he makes his best effort to think about something else each time. All day, Zayn’s been reflecting on the ways he’s let fear rule him his whole life. It’s fear that would have him hunt Harry, or spare Harry and run away so that he never has to face his family again. Zayn knows, despite how strong his urges are, that he doesn’t actually want to do either of those things. He's not going to let fear win this time.

Although it’s been easy to identify the choices he _doesn’t_ want to make, he’s at a loss for what to do next. This is unusual for Zayn; it's not like him not to have a plan. But before he decides on a course of action, he needs to sort out his own feelings. It’s now time for Zayn to figure out what’s really important to him, versus what he was _told_ should be important to him. He wants to be ruled by his own values now. Not fear, not impulsivity, not shame.

Zayn hates change more than anything. He thrives in the face of the known, the predictable. But learning more about Harry – about how he’s kind, lonely, and _human_ – makes Zayn question everything he thought he knew.

A moth flies into Zayn’s face, attracted by the flame of his lighter. Disgusted, he ducks and waves it away, snapping his Zippo closed for the last time.

Finally, the light from Harry’s Mustang illuminates the road from the other side of the bend. Some vaguely familiar dad rock accompanies it, floating from the stereo into the heavy summer air. 

Harry doesn’t seem surprised when he sees Zayn waiting for him. In fact, Zayn realizes as Harry jumps out of the driver's seat, he looks quite pleased.

“Where were you?” Zayn calls, trying not to sound like he’s whining. He follows Harry to the front door and waits for him to finish fumbling with the key in the lock.

“Work,” Harry says, holding the door open for Zayn to step inside. “I only came home to change, though; I’m going out.”

Zayn tries not to let his face convey his disappointment. Evidently, he’s unsuccessful.

“Want to come with us?” Harry asks, already on his way down the hall to his bedroom.

“Who’s us?” Zayn asks. He stands awkwardly in the sitting room, running his finger along the dusty mantle. He briefly examines the pictures of children sat upon it, almost sure that they’re no relations of Harry’s. The inside of this place drives him mad; it really does.

“Me and Niall,” Harry calls from his room. “I work with him. He’s a good lad.

“Is he a witch too?”

“No, and he doesn’t know about me either.” Harry comes back into Zayn’s view, pulling his arms through an aggressively Hawaiian shirt. “A Muggle, so to speak.”

Zayn does his absolute best to meet Harry’s eyes. But the deep red of Harry's nail polish draws Zayn’s attention as he starts buttoning his shirt, leaving the top half undone. Zayn’s not sure whether Harry notices his gaze flick down to his hips exactly twice, wanting to get a better look at the laurels along his hips. If Harry does, it’s his own fault anyway. People don’t get tattoos like that unless they _want_ people to look.

Zayn pretends to think about his response to Harry’s invitation, nervous electricity sparking throughout his body.

“Yeah alright. I’ll come.”

He’s pleased to watch Harry’s expression go from uncertain to positively cheerful.

As they climb into the cab Harry’s called, the first thing that occurs to Zayn is how good Harry smells. He surreptitiously inhales a deep breath of the rich vanilla scent.

The second thing that occurs to Zayn that he has no idea how to introduce himself to Harry’s friend. _Hi, I’m Zayn. I tried to kill Harry at first, but now we’re best mates because we bonded over disgracing our families. Nice to meet you._

“Harry…how did we meet?”

“Hmm?” Harry sounds confused, distracted while he chooses the best filter for his obligatory “going out” selfie. Only after he posts his photo does he realize what Zayn is asking. He pulls at his bottom lip with his finger and thumb, looking thoughtful. “I dunno, who do you want to be?”

It’s a simple inquiry, but it knocks around Zayn’s brain forcefully. _Who do you want to be?_ Zayn feels like it’s an unfairly loaded question for a Friday night out. “Maybe…maybe we met at uni and I’ve come to visit you?”

Harry shakes his head. “I didn’t even finish college before I had to leave.”

"Hmm..." Zayn hums. He's suddenly very aware of the cab driver’s presence and hopes that this isn’t the weirdest conversation she’s heard today.

“What if we said we’re on a Tinder date?” Harry asks, with a look in his eye that Zayn can’t read. 

His stomach lurches; he's not sure how to react. Is Harry joking? Zayn's not even sure Harry’s into men, as it’s not something they’d discussed during their chats in the garden. He sits paralyzed for about a second too long, trying to decide whether to agree or laugh. He’s saved when Harry snorts and shoves at Zayn’s shoulder playfully.

A joke, evidently.

“Let’s say we went to college together and recently reconnected.”

Zayn laughs. “Harry, we don't sound like we grew up anywhere near each other.

“Whatever,” Harry shrugs. “I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. Friends from school, family friends, whatever you want to be. Besides, Niall’s Irish so he might not even notice the difference in our accents.”

Zayn snorts, feeling insulted _for_ Niall, but he leaves it.

They pass through the centre of the little village on their short drive to the pub. Zayn is used to the hustle and bustle of Bradford, with its Victorian architecture, dense population, and, quite frankly, diversity. However, he is starting to notice things Harry must like about this middle-of-nowhere location. The little Tudor-style buildings have charm to them. 

Harry points out a couple locations he recommends Zayn visit, including a church with beautiful stained glass windows (an odd choice for a witch, Zayn thinks), a fudge shop (“You _must_ try the peanut butter”), and an occult shop, which features cheap, magical-themed tchotchkes in the window and a sandwich board advertising psychic readings. It seems touristy, not a place a real witch would be caught dead in. Zayn raises his eyebrows. 

“They have good incense and candles and stuff.” Harry shrugs again, looking sheepish, before pointing down another road. “And my bakery is down that way.”

Zayn cranes his neck to look out the side window. He has to steady himself using the headrest in front of him when the cab jolts to a stop. He turns to look through the windscreen and sees horses he hadn’t noticed before. They’re meandering in front of the cab, right through the street.

“What the fuck?” Zayn asks, eyes following the horses as they pass.

“Oh yeah, they do that,” Harry explains with a smile. “There’s tons of animals that roam around the Forest. Horses, donkeys, even pigs.”

“You’re telling me that wild animals just roam around the villages as they please?” Zayn thinks he hears the cab driver chuckle as she resumes driving down the narrow street.

“Not exactly. They all have owners. But the owners are allowed to turn them out wherever they want.”

“This place is so weird.” Zayn rolls his eyes but struggles to hide a smile underneath his his mock-annoyance.

The cab drops them in front of an old, brick pub named after a queen. A blonde in a t-shirt and jeans, presumably Niall, waves at them from an outdoor table close to the road. “Alright Harry?” he calls in an Irish accent. 

“Hey Ni, this is my friend Zayn.”

Niall stands up to shake Zayn’s hand. Normally Zayn doesn’t like meeting new people; he gets nervous. But something about Niall’s bouncy energy puts him right at ease. Instead of sitting back down underneath the Heineken umbrella sheltering the table, Niall makes for the door of the pub. “First round’s on me. What’ll it be, lads?”

Harry settles himself into a seat and looks very thoughtful, as if this is the most important question he’s been asked all week. Finally, he says, “A tequila sunrise, please,” very seriously.

Zayn makes eye contact with Niall and laughs out loud when he realizes they’re making the same disgusted expression.

“And for you, Zayn? Would you like a mojito, a mimosa, a strawberry daiquiri? I’m sure Harry can recommend you something.”

Harry pretends to be offended and crosses his arms. “I like what I like!”

Zayn grins back at Niall. “I’ll just have whatever IPA’s on tap, cheers.”

“One tequila sunrise and a beer coming right up.” Niall turns and pushes open the pub’s heavy wooden door, and Zayn decides he likes him.

Zayn observes the families passing by with their prams, watches the horses meandering about down the road, and thinks about how quiet it is for a Friday night. “This is so different from home. I’ve never stayed anywhere like this before.”

Harry leans towards Zayn and rests his chin in his hand, his green eyes boring directly into Zayn’s. There's that stare again, the one that makes Zayn feel like Harry's trying to see into his soul. He wants to look away, but he doesn’t.

“And where’s home?”

“Bradford.”

“Ah. City boy.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “What about you?”

“Holmes Chapel.”

“Never heard of it.”

Harry pretends to look offended again. “It’s a beautiful little town south of Manchester, if you must know.”

Zayn pulls at the sleeves of his flannel, trying to decide how to word his next question tactfully. “I get why you had to leave,” Zayn starts. “But one thing I’ve been wondering is…why you chose to come here.”

Harry sighs in exasperation. “For someone who is a _witch_ hunter, emphasis on _witch_ , you really know fuck all about witches.”

Zayn feels his ears go hot. He hopes Harry can’t see them through the darkness falling gently around them. “In fairness, they tend to emphasize hunting over where witches like to go on holiday.”

“Yes, but I should think having even a cursory understanding of witching culture would be beneficial to a hunter. But obviously, they didn’t ask me,” Harry huffs. “Anyway. I came here because the Forest has a strong historical connection to witchcraft. If you know what you’re looking for, you can tap into that magical energy. Now it’s very touristy though, especially when it’s warm. A lot of the modern interest in this town comes from the fact that Sybil Leek lived here in the 50’s.” Zayn opens his mouth to ask, but Harry shoots him a look and keeps talking. “I’ll go ahead and assume you don’t know who that is. She’s probably the most famous witch of the twentieth century. Which isn’t that hard I guess, seeing as most of us are pretty private about it. That was her shop,” Harry says, nodding in the direction of the occult shop they’d passed earlier. “And you’re going to have to answer that eventually.”

Zayn follows Harry’s gaze to his own mobile, which is face up on the table. It’s lit up with an incoming call from a number he unfortunately knows by heart now. He’s started ignoring the calls, tired of making excuses. Wordlessly, Zayn switches his mobile off and puts it in his pocket. Simon’s not going to ruin his evening.

“Is this a permanent home, then?” Zayn asks, as Niall returns with the drinks.

“Mmmm, for the foreseeable future, yeah,” Harry answers, and Zayn detects a hint of sadness in his tone.

Niall takes his seat and turns towards Zayn. “And how do you two know each other?”

Zayn hopes Harry can feel the imaginary daggers he's sending his direction. “Erm…we’re old mates from school. I’m visiting.”

“Oh really?” Niall raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I’d pegged you as a Yorkshire man.”

“He moved to Holmes Chapel for sixth form,” Harry says casually, plucking the little umbrella out of his ridiculous cocktail.

“Ahhh,” Niall says, looking satisfied.

“And what about you, Niall?” Zayn asks, eager to move the conversation away from him and Harry.

“I’m Irish, obviously. I moved in with my auntie so I could go to Southampton for biology, and now I work in her bakery year-round. I’m so glad Harry decided to move down here and ‘prove his independence to his family.’” Niall forms air quotes with his fingers here, and Zayn realizes that this must be the half-truth Harry has given Niall. “My baking…well, let’s just say I won’t be on _Bake Off_ any time soon.”

As the conversation flows naturally, a warm feeling settles in Zayn's stomach. He’s truly relaxed for once, and not just because he’s finishing his second beer and tucking into a plate of shepherd’s pie. 

The second time Harry reaches over to steal a forkful of Zayn’s mashed potato, Zayn tells him he’ll kick him if he does it again. When he sees Harry poising himself for another quick jab at his plate a minute later, Zayn does kick him.

“Ow!” Harry whines, reaching down to massage his shin dramatically.

“I literally warned you,” Zayn laughs.

“But I didn’t even take any yet!”

“You were going to!”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Harry laughs and attempts to dive around Zayn for another bite.

Zayn grabs Harry’s fist before it gets to his plate and Harry laughs maniacally, pushing against Zayn’s hand.

“What is wrong with you?” Zayn demands, laughing harder.

Niall, who’s been watching them go back and forth like he’s at a tennis match, snorts. “Harry, you’ve got a full plate of fish and chips in front of you.”

“Yeah, but I want potato too,” Harry giggles, still wrestling Zayn. 

“Chips _are_ potatoes!”

“Well, I want yours,” Harry laughs.

“God, you are so annoying.” Zayn shakes his head and finally releases Harry’s hand, who triumphantly scoops up a forkful of mashed potato. Zayn grabs a fistful of Harry’s chips in return.

It’s so fucking juvenile, but Zayn can’t help smiling down into his shepherd’s pie. They’re flirting like pre-teens. Or, at least, Zayn’s flirting and he hopes Harry is too. His hand is still tingling from the cool touch of Harry’s skin.

Once Zayn’s polished off his stolen chips, he stands up, slightly lightheaded, and announces that he needs the toilet.

“Great. Get me another tequila sunrise on your way back,” says Harry, now happily eating his fish.

Zayn and Niall share another disapproving look, both unsettled by Harry’s pairing of fried food with a fruity cocktail. 

“I will _not_ suffer the embarrassment of walking into this pub and ordering that for you,” Zayn calls over his shoulder. “Not that you need another one, either,” he adds to himself.

As the pub’s door closes behind him, Zayn is almost certain that he hears Harry hiss, “Shut up Niall!” and Niall’s subsequent “Ow, Harry!”

Despite himself, Zayn finds himself standing at the bar three minutes later, ordering a fucking tequila sunrise. 

Harry is smug, of course, when Zayn plunks it on the table in front of him. Harry assures Zayn it’s good, not too sweet, and pleads with him to sample it. He even gets Niall to join him in chanting “Try it, try it, try it!”

Zayn eventually relents, if only to shut them up. Although Zayn makes a big show of wrinkling his nose and acting disgusted, it isn’t _that_ bad. When Niall and Zayn then force Harry to take a sip of Zayn’s IPA, he can tell from the spluttering and coughing that Harry thinks it _is_ that bad. That somehow makes everything ten times funnier. The three of them end up laughing hysterically at nothing, trying but failing to keep it down every time someone out for a walk passes their table. They get a lot of nasty looks for disturbing the peace.

It's kind of funny, Zayn thinks, as they all drunkenly shush each other for the fifth time tonight. He’s in a strange place, with strange people, continually bombarded with sights and sounds he’s not used to, and yet he feels more at peace tonight than he’s felt in months. Maybe in years.

\--

Harry’s desperately trying to figure out how to make Zayn stay over without being weird about it. He’s failing miserably.

The haze of tequila has made two things much clearer. One, Zayn is upsettingly beautiful. Two, Harry needs to kiss him about it. But Zayn’s not getting it. Zayn’s still in the back of the cab, laughing at him.

Harry’s got one foot on the asphalt in front of his cottage, one foot still inside the cab to prevent Zayn from shutting the door. He's barely maintaining his balance, trying to explain why it just makes more _sense_ for Zayn to stay over.

“It really doesn’t, mate; you’ve got a small place. And I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Harry groans, exasperated, and throws all dignity to the wind. “How are you overstaying your welcome if I’m begging you to stay?!”

This continues for about ten more seconds until the driver’s had enough. “Right, I’m making the decision for you. Get the fuck out of my cab.”

Giggling, Harry grabs Zayn’s arm and yanks him out. He’s pleased to see that Zayn doesn't look unhappy as the cab speeds away.

Harry leads the way inside and switches the lights on. Zayn immediately drops onto the sofa as Harry goes for the kitchen, kicking off his trainers on the way.

“Know any good hangover spells?” Zayn calls after him.

Harry laughs, pulling two glasses from the cupboard. “Unfortunately, no. But Louis’s a healer, so I’ll have to ask him next time I see him. For now, though, we’ll have to make do with water.” He comes back into the sitting room, pausing in the doorway. “I was actually hoping we could chill in my room and put some music on or something. I want to lay down but there isn’t room out here.”

Halfway through his sentence, Harry could fucking kick himself. He almost does, until he realizes how mad he would look.

He just can't contain himself. Not with the electricity sparking throughout his body, urging him to reach out and touch. It had started in his stomach the second he saw Zayn waiting for him, and spread all the way to his fingertips by the time he’d pulled him from the cab. Any walls he’d been maintaining in the interest of self-preservation are as gone as the tequilas now. Harry’s absolutely touch starved, desperate to feel the warmth of another person who cares about him even a little bit.

For the second time this week, he’s horrified to think that he may have pushed it too far, made Zayn want to leave. And he wouldn’t blame him; Harry’s usually a little smoother. A _lot_ smoother. But that was before he exiled himself to live with fairies and wild horses as his only consistent companions.

“It’s your place,” Zayn shrugs. “Whatever you wanna do.”

It’s a bit too casual, possibly an attempt to mask alarm at Harry’s terrible excuse to get Zayn into bed. But Harry will take it, and promises himself to leave the next move to Zayn.

_Please, dear god, let there be a next move_ , Harry begs as he leads Zayn down the tiny hallway.

“What?” he says, when he sees Zayn standing in the doorway, looking around the room.

“Nothing.” Zayn smiles, reaching up to brush his finger against one of the wildflower bouquets Harry’s hung on the wall to dry. “Your room is just a lot more…you. Compared to the rest of the place, I mean.”

Harry looks around, supposing that Zayn is right. His desk in the corner is covered in musty old books and drips of candle wax. His bed is made up, albeit not perfectly, and Harry suddenly feels self-conscious about the pile of boots spilling out of his closet. 

“Can you switch those on?” Zayn asks, pointing at the fairy lights circling the ceiling.

Harry does, and Zayn nods in approval. Harry’s bedside lamp is already casting light over the tapestries adorning the walls, but the fairy lights add a pleasant, warm glow.

Harry crosses to kneel in front of his record collection and Zayn finally enters the room. His heart thuds as he sees Zayn make himself comfortable in his bed out of the corner of his eye. He slouches back against the headboard, long legs extended, hands behind his head. Harry wonders how it's possible to just… _look_ like that in a simple flannel, band t-shirt, and ripped jeans. It’s enraging.

“I’m trying to think if I have anything you’d like,” Harry frets, returning his focus to his collection. He turns to face Zayn, pulling at his bottom lip. “You like hip-hop and R&B, right? I don’t have much of that.”

Zayn finishes his glass of water, sets it back on Harry’s bedside table, and leans forward. “Flip through and I’ll tell you if there’s anything I know.”

Harry obliges, nervously passing what seems like half his collection before Zayn stops him. “Pink Floyd’s good!”

Harry's relieved. He places the album on his turntable, swearing when his drunken fingers drop the needle a little too hard. He flops down on his back to the right of Zayn, closing his eyes and clasping his hands over his stomach, resolving to behave. He’s trying to come up with a conversation topic that isn’t overtly lame, when Zayn surprises him by speaking first.

“I have a tattoo of _Dark Side of the Moon_ , actually.”

Harry’s eyes snap open and he turns to look at Zayn, propping his head up on his elbow. “What? Where?” He’s surprised he hadn’t noticed, given that staring at Zayn has been one of his favourite activities lately.

Zayn pulls the right sleeve of his flannel off and rotates his arm until Harry can see the design on its inside. Tucked away as it is, it would be hard to see if he wasn’t looking for it.

“Me too!” Harry pulls up his left sleeve to show Zayn his.

“Huh, that’s a funny coincidence.” Zayn smiles. “I’ve been meaning to ask what else you have.”

Harry sits up, taking a sip of his water. “What don’t I have?” he says sheepishly, holding out his arms. Some of his tattoos cost a pretty penny, but others are stick and pokes done by random people at parties.

Harry holds his breath as Zayn takes his left arm between his hands, turning it this way and that to take them all in. Harry continues to feel the touch of Zayn’s fingers even after he lets go, as if the heat of his hands had burned marks into his skin.

“'You booze you lose,' a Bible…?” You're a walking contradiction.” Zayn laughs as he takes Harry’s other arm.

Harry shrugs. “Loads of them weren’t thought out. Some of them are there just because I liked the aesthetic or felt spontaneous.”

Zayn nods in a way that makes Harry think he got a lot of his own tattoos the same way.

“I’ve also got these,” Harry says. Feeling reckless, he unbuttons his shirt completely to show off the massive butterfly on his stomach and laurel branches adorning his hips. He can almost _feel_ Zayn’s gaze descend from his chest, to his stomach, to his hips, sizzling like the beam of a laser.

“I’m sure the girls go crazy over those.”

Harry feels a flash of annoyance, a flip in his stomach, and an urge to laugh, all in one millisecond. _Girls?_ Could Harry be any more obvious, short of taking off his trousers to show off the tattoo on his thigh? But he knows that Zayn’s not stupid. So…is he testing him because he’s interested, or because he’s ready to run out the front door?

“Eh, not really my thing,” Harry shrugs. “Fortunately, I’ve found that it has the same effect on boys.” Harry closes his eyes again and resumes his original position on his back, hands folded over his stomach. He’s too nervous to watch Zayn’s reaction.

“Hmm,” Zayn hums noncommittally. And then, after a pause, he asks, “Not going to ask me about mine, then?”

Harry lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He opens his eyes to see Zayn smiling shyly at him.

“Alright, let’s see then,” Harry says, turning back on his side to face Zayn.

The tattoo on the outside of Zayn’s right arm, the giant ( _kind of tacky_ , Harry thinks) portrait of a woman is practically glaring at him. It takes every ounce of strength he has not to ask about it immediately. Instead, he reaches over Zayn and motions for him to move his left hand closer. Zayn places his hand lightly in Harry’s own.

“This is beautiful,” Harry murmurs, tracing the floral mandala on Zayn’s hand with his fingertips.

“Thanks. I really like most of them, but I have a few that are kind of shit. Not thought out well or not well executed. Or both,” Zayn laughs.

“I know the feeling. Any you regret?” Harry asks, willing his eyes to look at Zayn’s face, and not back at the tattoo of the woman.

“Well,” Zayn cringes. “I’ve got a huge picture of an ex on my arm, so I’d say so, yeah.”

Harry feels absolutely triumphant. “I’m sure the girls go crazy over that one as well,” he says, trying to sound casual.

Zayn laughs and looks down at it. “Yeah. The boys too.”

Harry feels like he needs a minute to contain himself, mentally sending thanks to whichever deity is listening. Fortunately, Zayn doesn’t make Harry fill the silence.

“I’ve got better ones dedicated to other people though. Mostly my family. My granddad,” he says, pointing to an Arabic word on his chest, "and my sisters." He runs his finger down several more names on his left arm.

Zayn’s face falls slightly at the mention of his family, although he tries to hide it. They haven’t talked about their families much, aside from their meeting in the woods and the following conversation in Harry’s garden. It’s obviously a painful topic for both of them. 

Harry briefly considers changing topics, as talking about family does not make for good foreplay. He can’t, though, not when he sees Zayn trace one of the tattoos with his finger, the tension evident in his narrow shoulders. He clearly needs to talk to someone, and Harry’s currently the only someone he’s got.

Harry realizes that Zayn’s probably been waiting patiently for permission to broach the subject. Now’s as good a time as any, he supposes. Harry can’t talk about serious shit when he’s sober anyway.

“You seem really close with your family,” Harry starts hesitantly. “How do you think they’ll react when you tell them what happened?” 

_Will you end up like me?_ The unspoken question hangs in the air.

Zayn shifts his gaze back to Harry, who's quite taken aback by the expressiveness of Zayn’s eyes. While each sliver of hope shines from deep within his irises, the bags beneath his eyes carry each worry, plain for anyone to see. It’s too private somehow, Harry thinks. He looks away. 

“Erm…I dunno, really,” Zayn says, chewing on his lip. “My parents have always been pretty accepting of different things, and lenient on traditions. But your first hunt is like…the defining feature of your identity as a hunter. It would probably be like if you came from a witch family and just didn’t get your…you call it a gift, right?”

Harry nods.

"If you don't get your gift when you turn fifteen, are you even a witch? If I don’t hunt, how can I be a hunter?”

Harry nods again. He can tell Zayn’s had this conversation with himself many times.

“Some kids don’t complete their hunts because they disagree with it morally. But they and their families usually leave the Order completely before they reach their twentieth year. I’ve never heard of someone turning up and realized they’re too much of a coward to go through with it,” Zayn snorts humourlessly. He must misinterpret the look on Harry’s face, because he quickly apologies. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say it like—”

“No,” Harry interrupts, shaking his head. “I was just thinking…What you did was brave, in a way. I don’t think you took the easy way out.”

Zayn looks unconvinced.

“Your whole life led up to that moment when you confronted me in the clearing. Your family raised you and had you trained, knowing you’d stand there someday. And let’s face it, I would have been an easy kill. I was unarmed. I didn’t see you coming, practically ran straight into you. And you went against everything you knew in that moment because your heart told you to do something different.” Harry shrugs. “If going against your family to do the right thing makes you a coward, I’m happy to be a coward.

Zayn is silent for a moment as he considers Harry’s perspective. “I’ve been meaning to ask – how’d you know my name that day?”

“Oh. I had a vision of what was going to happen, like, two minutes beforehand. And I heard your name in my head. That’s why I was tearing through the woods like that. My intuition is better than you’d expect for someone without training, but it doesn’t help much when I get a vision only minutes before the thing happens. Or when I get a vision that’s too vague for me to make use of. Fucking useless,” Harry says, irritated at himself.

When Harry meets Zayn’s gaze again, he’s surprised to see that Zayn’s eyes look a bit glassy.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, Harry.” Zayn’s massaging his temples, eyes downcast, just like the night they met. “I can’t – I can’t imagine what that felt like. It makes me feel ill to think of it now.”

Harry can feel the true weight of Zayn’s remorse, now that he knows Zayn wouldn’t hurt a fly. He takes a chance and reaches out to pull one of Zayn’s hands into both of his own, squeezing it in reassurance. Zayn looks surprised, but lets Harry hold his hand. 

“What stopped you?” Harry asks.

“You were just…” Zayn searches for the best word. “…Different. The Council made it out like I’d be lucky if _you_ didn’t try to kill _me_. At first, I really thought you’d cast some spell on me, right, because I couldn’t pull the trigger and I didn’t know why. I’d always been nervous about my hunt, but I assumed I’d grow a pair when the moment actually came. You were just so…so helpless. I couldn’t do it in the end.” Zayn looks back down at his lap.

“I do take a bit of offence to being called helpless,” Harry jokes. He squeezes Zayn’s hand again, enjoying his warmth as it spreads to his own palms.

Zayn rewards him with a small but genuine smile.

“You did scare the shit out of me though,” Harry continues. “You seemed like you meant business at first.”

Zayn laughs. “It’s kind of embarrassing, honestly. I think I was subconsciously trying to copy villains from films I’ve seen.”

When their chuckles fade into silence, Harry realizes the record’s A-side has finished playing. He doesn’t get up to flip it, though; he wants Zayn to know he has his full attention.

“But back to my original question. Your family seems reasonable. You don’t think they’ll understand how you feel if you explain?”

Zayn sighs. “I think they’ll understand all right. I just don’t know if I can expect them to accept the repercussions they’ll face as a result of backing me up. Both sides of my family come from really long lines of well-known, well-connected hunters.”

Harry nods. He knows what that’s like.

“My parents are on the Council, so they're supposed to set an example as well. Most members of the Council are strict, and they like to make examples out of people who go against them. Simon especially. I don’t think he’ll give a shit that you’re not trained, or that I think you’re a decent person. Actually, I would bet everything I own that that he’ll order me to come back here and finish what I started. If I don’t obey, they’ll probably kick me out of the Order just like your Council did.”

“Coven,” Harry corrects.

“Same thing,” Zayn smiles. “Although coven does sound cooler.”

Harry's surprised to feel Zayn now squeezing _his_ hand.

“Anyway, if I get removed from the Order, I’ll have to leave home. The Council won’t want my bad influence around, especially when it comes to my little sisters. My parents will be expected to condemn my actions as well. If they won’t, they’ll probably get booted with me.” Zayn frowns. “I just can’t expect my parents to leave with me. I can’t ask that of them. _That’s_ what I’m scared of.”

Harry stares at Zayn with his mouth open, incredulous. “You can’t ask that of them? You’re their _son_!”

Perhaps surprised by Harry’s sudden vehemence, Zayn takes his hand back cautiously. “But I went against the whole structure of a hunter’s life. I’m making that decision alone, without consulting my family. All they’ve ever done is support me, and I’m letting them down. I can’t just demand for them to be okay with that, or to leave the life and legacy they’ve always taken such pride in.” 

Harry tries to keep his tone even, but he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “That’s not right. You deserve their support. I certainly expected my family to take my side. I was always competitive with my sister, but I thought she would understand. And my mum...I thought she would follow me no matter what happened.” Harry can feel his face burning hot with anger. His darkest thoughts are threatening to break the lock on the little box he keeps them in, stowed away neatly in the back of his mind. “They should back you up, no matter what.”

Zayn reaches out to take both of Harry’s hands again, gently unfolding them from the fists he didn’t realize he’d made. Zayn looks straight into his eyes, genuine empathy displayed openly on his face, and Harry feels fucking pathetic.

“You don’t think you could ever forgive them?” Zayn asks.

That does it; the dam inside Harry finally cracks. The wild, untameable sadness he keeps locked away begins to spill into his chest, filling his lungs until he starts to choke. The spite pours out of him for the first time in months, for the first time since his last conversation with his mum. If it could be considered a conversation, that is. More like an argument. Tantrum, even.

“Honestly?” Harry scoffs. “I haven’t pictured what forgiving them would look like, because I don’t think they’ll ever present me with the opportunity to forgive them. So no. I can’t see that happening.” 

“It sounds like your mum does miss you, from what you said about your cousin bringing you things.” Zayn squeezes Harry’s hands harder.

Harry knows Zayn is trying to be helpful, but he just doesn’t get it. And Harry needs to get his head back above water before he drowns, stuff all this hurt back into the box it came from. He can’t do that if Zayn keeps talking.

He closes his eyes. “Zayn, please,” he says with a clear finality, slamming the door shut on the conversation.

It’s silent for a moment, save for the crickets surrounding the cottage and an owl hooting off in the distance. Harry focuses on trying to breathe properly, feeling Zayn massage the tension out of his fingers. He wishes Zayn would bring his fingers to his lips and kiss them one by one. Kiss it all away. But that’s not something he can ask for.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Zayn murmurs. “Are you tired?”

Harry nods, eyes still closed. He can’t bear to see any more of the pity on Zayn’s face. Especially since his intention was to support Zayn, not throw a pity party.

“Alright then. If you just get me some extra blankets, I’ll make myself comfortable on the sofa.”

Harry’s eyes snap open, betrayed. He grits his teeth and tries to swallow the lump in his throat that's growing bigger by the second. All he wants to do is ask Zayn to stay. The sadness is still bubbling just below the surface, looking for any reason to burst through.

He notices Zayn staring a little too intently at his fingernails, now a glossy baby pink. Harry withdraws his hands quickly, not wanting to invite any more questions. Zayn frowns, clearly noticing the change in colour, but says nothing.

“Gonna go for a quick smoke,” Zayn says, patting Harry’s thigh reassuringly and starting to get up. 

“Okay.”

Harry feels dizzy from the mixture of emotions and alcohol making their way through his system. He's obviously not even in the mood to fool around anymore; he just wants to feel the warmth of Zayn next to him, to know he’s not alone for once. He desperately searches his brain for any conversation topic he can use to get Zayn to get back into bed with him, even if only for a little while, but he comes up empty. He says nothing in the end, knowing he’s pushed it far enough tonight as it is.

Besides, it’s fully Harry’s fault for asking about Zayn’s family. When is talking about family ever a good idea? Harry answers his own question: _Literally never_.

Harry sulks alone for several minutes until he hears the sound of the front door close and knows that Zayn’s returned. Only then does he finally get up and rummage through the linen closet. When Harry makes his way to the sitting room, blanket in hand, he sees a sleepy Zayn waiting for him. He’s reclined on the sofa in only his t-shirt and boxers, having removed his flannel and trousers and folded them neatly on the floor. He looks so comfortable that Harry’s heart aches. It’s all he can do to stop himself from climbing on top of Zayn and burying his face in his neck.

He takes his time unfolding the blanket for Zayn and tucking him in, because he wants to make sure Zayn has a chance to change his mind. He doesn’t.

“Cheers,” Zayn yawns, grinning up at Harry from the sofa. “I had a good time tonight.”

“Me too,” Harry nearly whispers, thinking about how Zayn’s snug and sleepy on _his_ sofa. In _his_ blanket. That’s something at least.

Harry waits until his bedroom door clicks closed before he finally lets the tears come. They’re fast and hot, about both his mum and his shame at losing control like he did. Harry’s always been known for being laid-back, playful, bubbly. A good time. He prides himself on being the person who can always put a smile on someone else’s face. But when someone pulls that plug, everything Harry’s been stopping up for months comes whooshing out: rage, fear, disappointment, despair.

He tries to centre himself to make sleep come easier, but he doesn’t have the energy. In the end, it’s the tears that tuck him in for a fitful slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photo reference for the [the occult shop](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/cb/28/40/cb2840f860d7757b44daeda2dd77ed9e.jpg) :)


	5. my enemy, my ally

Zayn’s not sure whether it’s the pounding in his head or the sandpaper on the back of his tongue that wakes him up the next morning. Either way, it fucking hurts. He burrows under his blanket, trying to suppress a groan.

Despite having killed some brain cells last night, his thoughts start running a mile a minute as soon as he wakes up enough to recall where he is. The bright morning light streaming through Harry’s front window is a sobering crash back to reality. Literally and figuratively.

If Zayn had hoped Harry was flirting with him at the start of the night, he had no doubt by the end. And, if the conversation hadn’t turned to a more serious topic, Zayn would have been easily seduced by Harry’s shitty tattoos and mischievous smile. The way he'd carefully held Zayn’s didn’t hurt either.

And that is exactly why Zayn needs to leave.

He pulls on last night’s clothes and sneaks halfway down the hallway to use Harry’s toilet. His ears strain in an attempt to figure out whether Harry’s awake yet. Zayn’s pretty sure he’s still asleep, which is a relief.

They both need some space, he thinks. Given that talking about family made Harry completely shut down last night, Zayn guesses that he'll want to forget that conversation happened. And if Zayn plans to find himself sitting in a witch’s bed again, thinking about how good said witch would look beneath him…Zayn needs to figure his own shit out first.

After he uses the toilet, Zayn jots a note saying he’ll be back later on the magnetic pad of paper on the fridge. And then he’s off, closing the front door gently so as not to wake Harry.

Once inside his Bentley, Zayn rests his forehead on the steering wheel, enjoying the cool leather against his skin. He lets it soothe him for a moment as he catches his bearings. If someone had told him a month ago that his target would become his closest friend, at least for the time being, he’d think they were mad. The fact that Zayn spent the night in the middle of a forest, encouraging a witch to confront his family issues while simultaneously burning himself off the Malik family tree…oh, the irony.

Zayn taps his fingers against his thighs, restless. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He has no answer every time his bloody mobile rings, nor does he know for sure what will happen once his family finds out about such a major fuck-up. He decides to poke around the town centre for a bit until he feels a little less agitated.

Zayn parks at the pub from last night and sets off down the high street, joining the groups of holidaymakers on their Saturday morning strolls. Instead of cycling through the same questions over and over, he makes a conscious effort to be present. In other words, walk at a leisurely pace, appreciate the smell of coffee wafting from the shop on the corner, and listen to the conversations around him.

Maybe taking a genuine break from it all and letting himself enjoy this sort-of holiday will make it easier to think productively later. He wants to feel relaxed. He wants to have no cares in the world like the rest of these people. _Fake it until you make it_ , he thinks.

And Zayn does make it. Fifteen minutes later he’s combatting the chilly morning air with a hot tea and warm croissant. There’s nothing much he’s interested in buying, but he peers into each of the little shops all the same. It’s nice to have a look while eavesdropping on the gossip of passers-by.

As the caffeine and a brisk breeze start to hit him, Zayn feels his hangover headache subside a bit. When he walks far enough that only houses line the high street, he loops back, intending to return to his rental now that he feels more settled.

However, upon reaching the pub, he once again notices the occult shop across the road. He can’t deny that he now has a curiosity about how witchcraft actually works. He’d always pictured witches as these all-powerful, universally bad-natured beings who could sum up dangerous curses in the blink of an eye. If Harry’s anything like the rest of them, the reality appears to be much less dramatic. After seeing him with his candles and herbs, Zayn finds himself wondering what other kinds of things might be used in witchcraft, especially by those without witch blood.

Zayn finds himself walking up to the shop, almost without making the conscious decision to do so. A part of him feels scared to go inside. Curiosity did kill the cat, and all.

He opens the door hesitantly and is immediately enveloped in the sickly smell of incense. The chatter of other customers, mostly teenage girls and their mums, surrounds him. An intimidating yet friendly-looking woman, dressed all in black, greets him from behind the till.

“Alright? Anything I can help you find?”

“Erm…no thanks. Just looking for now,” Zayn replies.

There’s so much crammed into every little nook and cranny of the shop – figurines, candles, incense, books, candy, herbs, and more – that he barely knows where to start. He settles for the corner with a handwritten sign proclaiming, “SPELL KITS!” Assorted pouches hang from the wall, containing what he supposes are spell ingredients. There are spells for seemingly everything: love, sex, money, protection, luck, success, cleansing…and the list goes on.

Zayn looks over his shoulder to make sure no one’s watching before reaching for a pouch titled “Lust.” It contains two red candles shaped like people, an oil of some sort, and a red powder. If Zayn’s a cat, he’s surely about to lose one of his lives.

He reads the instructions:

“Setting an intention and following the directions of this spell will increase feelings of lust between you and your intended lover. 

1) Scratch the name of your intended lover into the bottom of one candle, and your name into the bottom of the other.  
2) Set the two candles down on opposite ends of a tray, facing each other.  
3) State your intent for the spell (e.g., I want to increase the feelings of attraction between myself and my lover).”  
4) Rub the oil into the candles, working from the bottom to the tip. The oil is charged and contains essential oils, fragrances, and herbs that stimulate attraction.  
5) Sprinkle some of the hibiscus powder onto your intended lover’s candle, then create a generous trail of powder to your own candle. Sprinkle the rest of the powder onto your candle.  
6) Light both candles and allow them to burn one-seventh of the way down.  
7) Snuff out the candles with a candle snuffer or wet fingertips to preserve your intention within the candle, rather than blowing them out.  
8) Every day for seven days total, move the candles one step closer to each other, restate your intention, and repeat the burning process.  
9) Your spell is complete once the wax of the two candles has mixed and they have burned out completely.”

 _That’s a lot of work for one spell_ , Zayn thinks. He hangs the spell kit back on its peg and turns to the shelves of colourful incense on his left. He gives them a once-over but decides to skip this section, as the smell of the shop is making his headache come back.

Past the shelves of incense, Zayn comes upon a large display of glass figurines, like the ones he’d seen in the window last night. There are fairies, dragons, witches, and other mythical creatures. He picks up a small glass dragon, smiling as he examines it. It’s funny that a shop could sell real magic in one corner and these horrible things in another.

“Alright Zayn?” a familiar voice asks directly behind him.

This, as well as a simultaneous clap on his shoulder, startles Zayn so completely that he actually tosses the dragon figurine into the air. He catches it and returns it to its place on the shelf as the woman at the till clears her throat pointedly.

Zayn whirls around. “What the fuck?” He’s so confused that it’s all he can muster.

“That’s hardly the warm welcome I was hoping for!”

Zayn’s heart stutters for a second, then starts rattling around his chest cavity so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape.

In front of him stands Liam. Eyes laughing, arms open for a hug.

Zayn quickly rearranges his face from horrified dismay to pleasantly surprised. He leans in for a hug and apologizes, his voice muffled by Liam’s broad shoulder. Normally he’d find one of Liam’s bear hugs comforting, but in the current moment, his mind is racing.

He pulls back and straightens up, giving Liam a good look. It’s really been a _long_ time. He’s been working out, Zayn thinks, with the way his denim jacket pulls tight over his biceps.

Zayn tries again. “What I _meant_ to say is, ‘What are you doing here?’”

Liam grins and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Well, I think I know why _you’re_ here. Doing some recon?”

Zayn glances over at the shopkeeper, who averts her eyes. “Let’s erm…let’s go outside, yeah?”

Liam nods and winds his way through the other customers, Zayn in tow.

It makes no fucking sense for Liam to be here. He should be at home in Wolverhampton, on holiday from uni. It’s not that Zayn doesn’t trust Liam, but turning up in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, three hours from home, unannounced? That’s not Liam. Something’s up, and it’s got Simon’s name all over it.

Zayn resolves not to offer up any information. He needs to find out what Liam already knows about his hunt first.

Liam shivers once the door shuts behind them. “Gives me the fucking creeps to be in a shop like that. You never know if an actual witch is hanging around. Anyway,” he says, leading Zayn to a bench a couple paces away. “As soon as I saw you go in there, I knew you were working on your hunt.”

 _Fuck!_ So Liam’s been watching him, at least for a couple minutes. Did he only see Zayn in town just now? Or did he follow him from Harry’s house? He desperately wants to ask, but knows he needs to choose his next response carefully.

Liam pulls out a packet of cigarettes, taking one for himself and placing the other between Zayn’s lips. Zayn uses the time it takes Liam to light them both up to think it through.

“Yeah, I’ve seen the target go in there a couple times. Just wanted to have a look around. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, you know?” Zayn manages a convincing chuckle to go with his lie. “Seriously though, wild coincidence that you spotted me. Are you on holiday with your family or something?”

Now it’s Liam’s turn to look nervous; he won’t quite meet Zayn’s eyes. “This is...kind of awkward, so please don’t kill me.” Liam takes a long pull and breathes out slowly.

 _Oh fuck, here it comes_ , Zayn thinks.

“The Council sent me to poke around town, see if I could find you and make sure you were alright. They said you hadn’t been answering calls. But it seems like you’re doing fine, right?”

The vice grip on Zayn’s chest loosens slightly when he realizes he can actually bullshit his way out of this one.

“Yeah, I’m doing fine,” Zayn answers casually, flicking a bit of ash onto the pavement. “But Simon was calling incessantly. If I keep talking to him about it, I run the risk of Styles hearing our conversation in a vision before we’ve even had it. I’d be handing him my entire plan.”

Zayn’s going buy himself something nice later for coming up with that tall tale so fast. And truthfully, while it’s not the primary reason he stopped taking the calls, Simon’s insistence on being updated daily _is_ something that’s been bugging him. It puts Zayn in danger unnecessarily. He went over this so many times during his training on diviners. _Don’t do anything conspicuous, limit communications about the target lest they be read or overheard, remain a face in the crowd until the last second._

Liam looks impressed. “Mate…that’s so smart. Clearly, you’ve got this all under control.”

“It’s only common sense,” Zayn reasons. “And Simon knows it, too. Why's he being so impatient about this? I still have a couple months to go before I turn twenty anyway.”

Zayn is blatantly fishing for information, hoping Liam knows something that he doesn’t.

“Aside from Styles having a really dangerous gift and his family having a lot of power in their coven? I heard that Simon’s got something out for the Styles family in particular.” Liam wiggles his eyebrows conspiratorially. “No one knows why, but it seems personal.”

Zayn’s head is really pounding now. He feels like a fool for not seeing it before, but it makes perfect sense. He’s supposed to complete his hunt independently, yet Simon gave him an assignment and sent someone to check in on him when he stopped answering calls. Of _course_ it’s personal.

Zayn knows this increases the danger he and Harry are in tenfold. He tries to keep his voice level because he cannot give Liam even the slightest hint that something’s up. Any other young hunter would be honoured to take out a target with personal importance to the Council Leader.

“Might outshine you this once, Liam,” Zayn says, hoping his eyes twinkle alongside his teasing words. “You may have taken down the eldest son of one of the biggest crime families in England, but a personal enemy of Simon’s? They might make me the youngest member of the Council.”

Liam gives Zayn a good-natured punch to the arm. “You better get going then, if you really want to impress them. I completed my hunt in under a month, without any help. Remember?”

Zayn’s relieved that Liam seems to buy everything he’s saying, and when Zayn smiles, it’s genuine. Everything is a competition to Liam. Because he _always_ wins.

“Well, if they’ll leave me alone, I’m sure I can finish it quickly. You can tell Simon I’ll ring him if I get stuck.”

“Sure thing. Honestly, can’t believe they made me drive three hours for this,” Liam says, kicking a rock into the road in his irritation. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it then, especially because you’re not supposed to be speaking to anyone at all. I don’t think the rest of the Council even knows I’m here. It’s like Simon’s got his own agenda.”

Zayn stamps out the remainder of his cigarette and stands up to embrace Liam in a tight hug. He has mixed feelings about Liam leaving so soon. He experiences a flood of relief at the thought that he's bought himself another week or two, at least. But there’s sadness, too, because he’s just seen his best mate for the first time in forever and can’t even tell him about what he’s going through.

“Missed you,” he says into Liam’s shoulder.

“Me too.” Liam claps Zayn on the back again. “Finish this shit quick so we can chill before the end of the holiday. I bet we’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

Zayn smiles and nods, and both boys head off in opposite directions, waving. _If you only knew_ , Zayn thinks to himself.

As he returns to his car, Zayn tries to count the positives. At least he’s bought himself time during which he doesn’t have to worry about Simon, or anyone else, checking in on him. And, if Simon felt he had to send someone, Zayn’s glad he sent Liam. He can trust Liam.

When Zayn’s finally back at his rental, he sits himself down with his notebook at the spacious oak desk in his bedroom. He searches for a page not already covered in doodles and course notes and starts to make pros and cons lists for all his options, even the ones he’s not really considering. It always helps when he can visualize something.

**#1: FINISH THE HUNT**

**Pros:**  
-Won’t be in trouble with my family or the Council  
-Never have to hunt again  
 **Cons:**  
-Not sure how to do it – Harry has my revolver  
-Will hate myself forever  
-Can’t kiss Harry

Zayn considers the list for a moment before drawing a line through “FINISH THE HUNT” and everything underneath it. He then draws a box around the words “can’t kiss Harry” and fills it in methodically until the words beneath are unreadable. He can’t believe he just wrote that, as if he’s in primary school. What a stupid, flippant thought to have when Harry’s life is in danger. Next to the black box, Zayn writes, “Harry dies.” It’s harsh, but more accurate.

Zayn doodles the _Dark Side of the Moon_ album artwork for a moment as he thinks. He writes his next bullets in slow, perfect script:

**#2: DISAPPEAR**

**Pros:**  
-Don’t have to face any consequences from my family or the Council  
-I can start over and be whoever I want to be  
 **Cons:**  
-Lose all my friends and family (except Harry?)  
-Only have money from Mum and Dad to last the summer  
-Don’t know where I would go

Zayn sighs. He doesn’t want to become another Harry, out in some middle of nowhere village, working in a bakery. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with that…it’s just not for Zayn. He’s used to a certain standard of living, for one thing. But more importantly, he doesn’t think he could ever choose to be apart from his family. He loves them more than anything, and they’ve always been a profound source of comfort and support. The only way he could see himself being apart from them permanently, he realizes, is if they made that choice for him. Which leads him to his third and final option:

**#3: TRY TO REASON WITH PARENTS & COUNCIL**

**Pros:**  
-Not lying to anyone  
-Can have a good conscience  
 **Cons:**  
-If Mum and Dad disinherit me: same as #2 (possible)  
-If Mum and Dad support me: Council might revoke my family’s membership in the Order (also possible)  
-Will bring shame on my family (guaranteed)

Zayn doodles some geometric patterns at the bottom of the page, rereading all three choices as if he hadn’t committed to one the moment he put down his revolver on the night he met Harry. He considers adding “Harry is safe” to options two and three, but quickly realizes, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that Harry is _not_ safe. Death is imminent for Harry in option one, but still highly likely in options two and three. Even if Zayn doesn’t hunt him, Simon’s insistence indicates that someone else will. Zayn adds “Harry is not safe” to Operation Disappear and neatly crosses the whole thing out. Finally, he makes some edits to the last and only viable option:

**#3: TRY TO REASON WITH PARENTS & COUNCIL**

**Pros:**  
-Not lying to anyone  
-Can have a good conscience  
-Might keep Harry safe?  
 **Cons:**  
-If Mum and Dad disinherit me: same as #2 (possible)  
-If Mum and Dad support me: Council might revoke my family’s membership in the Order (also possible)  
-Will bring shame on my family (guaranteed)  
 **NOTE:** have to figure out how to stop the Council sending someone else to hunt Harry

Sneaking home to talk to his parents before the Council realizes he’s abandoned ship will be easy enough. His little sisters Safaa or Waliyha, the only other members of his immediate family who haven’t yet completed a hunt, have always looked up to Zayn. He’ll be able to count on them to let him know when his parents will be home without visitors.

It’s figuring out what to say and how to say it that will be the difficult part. Zayn’s relieved for the time he’s just bought himself, because this has been enough thinking and planning for one day. He tosses his notebook onto the bed and goes for a quick shower, itching to get back to Harry and pick up where they left off.

 _And maybe Harry will have some advice on what to say_ , Zayn thinks, buttoning his shirt and slipping on his black Vans. _Or_ , Zayn grimaces slightly in the mirror as he fixes his collar, _what not to say._

\--

Harry stands on the top floor of a chic office building, in front of an impossibly large wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s night-time and the view of St. Paul’s Cathedral is gorgeous, the dome lit bright against the ink black sky. He moves closer to the window until the glass seems to disappear. It’s as if he could take one step forwards and fall to his death. Despite this, he feels calm.

Harry considers the sky, slightly disappointed that he can’t see the stars. That’s one of his only gripes with London.

“Yes?”

A man’s stern voice behind him causes Harry to start, holding his palms to the window for support. He supposes it’s a good thing the glass is here after all.

He turns to see a seated man with short, dark hair facing away from him, talking on his mobile. The man doesn't acknowledge Harry’s reaction.

“I’d like an update.”

A pause.

“And what is that plan, exactly?” the man demands.

Harry wants to resume looking out the window, but he feels compelled to listen to the rest of this conversation. He has a feeling it’s important, somehow.

“Seriously? Listen to yourself,” the man say, irritated. “I’m not even going to entertain this nonsense! There’s no reason it should take so long. It’s barely even a hunt; I provided most of the information.”

 _A hunt?_ Harry thinks he’s having déjà vu. He’s heard that phrase before, but he can’t quite remember when or where.

The man continues. “I’m glad I listened to my gut feeling and started checking in with you. I would not have bet on this hunt ending successfully otherwise. Would you look at that; I see the future just as well as Styles.” The man laughs humourlessly.

 _Styles? But that’s me…_ Harry manages dimly. He feels like his thoughts are coming from very far away before they float into his conscious mind. It’s hard to keep up.

“No. Neither I nor your family want you back here until it’s done. And when I say done, I mean finish it. All of it.”

Harry realizes he should probably get out of here, but he can’t move. His feet feel glued to the floor.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Another pause.

“I don’t care if he’s your friend. Finish the whole ordeal, or you’ll be the next one getting hunted. This Council does not tolerate disloyalty.”

The man slams his mobile down on the table and spins his chair around to face Harry's direction. He runs his hand back and forth through his bristly hair before walking briskly towards the window.

Harry realizes in horror that the man is coming right for him. _Why hasn’t he said anything yet, or thrown me out of his office?_ Harry feels too confused to process anything. He just wants to get out. But the man is coming closer and closer, and Harry is completely paralyzed.

Just as the man is about to crash into him, Harry finally manages to take a step backwards. He ties to retain his balance as his foot searches for the ground that should be there. Over the course of a second that feels like it stretches an hour, he realizes too late that he’s falling. He reaches for the man, who does not react. Harry tips backwards and plummets towards the pavement below. He doesn’t even scream.

“Fucking shit!” Harry yelps in a blind panic, awakened by his shoulder crashing into his bedroom's hardwood floor. Any other time, that sort of impact and the resulting ache would immobilize him. It doesn't this time though, because his would-be murderer is in his sitting room. Breathing hard, he barely has time to wonder how or why he keeps falling out of bed like this.

While he was in the dream, nothing made sense. But it’s all crystal clear now.

Harry curses himself for shouting, sure he’s woken Zayn up if he wasn’t already awake. He’s on his feet in no time, making a complete mess of the drawer in his bedside table as he fumbles around for a key. After a couple of seemingly endless seconds, he slides the key into the lock box under his bed and removes Zayn’s gun. In retrospect, he probably should have done some target practice or even Googled how to use it. At any rate, he feels more secure knowing that it’s in his hand and not Zayn’s.

Harry's sort of surprised he can’t hear Zayn moving around, especially after the racket he made. He holds the gun out in front of him and yanks his bedroom door open, quite dramatically. Slowly, just in case Zayn is somehow still sleeping, Harry creeps down the hallway.

But when he reaches the sitting room, Zayn isn’t there. Nothing is out of place, save for the blanket Harry had given him, folded neatly and hanging over the back of the sofa. He must have snuck out early.

Harry sighs and slumps down onto the sofa himself, gun in his lap. Now that there’s seemingly no immediate threat, and his body has subsequently stopped shooting adrenaline through his veins, Harry realizes just how exhausted he is. A mixture of alcohol and nightmares kept him restless all night. He feels irritable too, now that he can smell the lingering odour of smoke Zayn left all over his sofa. And he’d wanted Zayn to sleep in his _bed_ last night?

“What the fuck was I thinking?” Harry says out loud, rubbing his face with his hands.

It’s a rhetorical question. Harry knows exactly what he was thinking: that it had been so long since he’d had someone over. Five long months without anyone to talk to besides Niall, Louis, and the never-ending stream of children who come into the bakery crying for sweets.

Harry has barely spoken to any of his friends back home; most of them spend their time with uni friends now. And that’s Harry’s fault, honestly. He didn’t know how to explain why he left school and moved halfway across the country to live in the woods by himself. Not to people who didn't even know he was a witch to begin with. So, he just…didn’t. He chats with them on social media occasionally, but it’s all surface level.

Zayn was different. Zayn had started to become someone he could rely on. Someone to come home to.

What Harry was doing, if he had to answer his own question, was simply trying to make a real human connection. Clearly, that was not meant to happen for him. Not according to the conversation he just witnessed between Zayn and a man he can only assume is Simon.

Harry is really grateful he’s not already dead. He was so stupid to reveal his weaknesses to Zayn, who’s going to crumble under Simon’s intense pressure any day now. Zayn’s decision not to hunt Harry isn’t going to hold up when Simon threatens him with his own life. And honestly, Harry can’t really blame him. Simon did not sound like he was speaking in hyperbole.

Harry feels simultaneously anxious and relieved that his sight isn’t strong enough to show him what’ll happen next. If he’s most likely to live, it would be nice to know how to prepare to keep himself safe. If it doesn’t look good…does he really want to know? He doesn’t think so.

Harry fiddles with the gun in his lap, looking at it closely for the first time. It would be beautiful, really, if its sole purpose wasn’t to cause harm. It’s made of a shiny silver metal accentuated by intricate floral engravings and a jet-black grip. Its polished, expensive-looking exterior masks the treachery inside.

Just like Zayn, Harry thinks.

When he returns to his bedroom, gun still in hand, a text lights up the display of his iPhone from the bedside table. When he unlocks it, he sees that Niall’s simply sent the eggplant emoji and a question mark.

“Ugh. Don’t ask,” Harry replies. He tosses his mobile down onto the bed, but not before seeing Niall respond with a crying emoji.

Harry pulls on a t-shirt and then a pair of trousers, tucking the gun into the back of them as if he’s in some action movie. Then he starts packing.

It’s hard to pack, Harry realizes, when he doesn’t know where he’s going or how long for. At the very least, he needs to drive a couple hours away and make sure he isn’t followed. He starts making a pile of essentials: his toothbrush, his headphones, his wallet, his trainers. As he stands in front of his closet, trying to decide which shirts and trousers he wants to bring, and how many, a wave of grief rolls over him.

 _Everything was_ fine _until that dickhead showed up_ , Harry thinks, ripping a shirt off a hanger. Harry’s been lonely, sure, and angry deep down, but his everyday life had been simple, the way he likes it. Every day he’d been meditating, working on his magic, and carving out a little corner of the Forest for himself. He liked his job. He liked going out with Niall. He liked the fact that animals roam his little town like something out of a fantasy novel. All things considered, Harry was happy. And now it’s fucked.

Secretly, Harry knows that the worst part of all this has nothing to do with having to leave or getting stalked for the rest of his potentially short life. What hurts the most is how much he regrets letting himself be vulnerable. Getting drunk and doe-eyed and giggly, hoping Zayn would want him. Harry physically cringes remembering his blatant neediness the night before. If he knew a spell to remove all trace of himself from Zayn’s memories, he’d do it.

Harry resolves to go back to one-offs with nameless boys from the club, who want Harry from the second he lays eyes on them. On a night like that, he’s fully in control. He picks someone, he fucks them, he leaves. Harry’s done wasting his time working for someone’s affection, only to get burned once he’s laid his cards on the table. The only thing worse than being lonely is getting a taste of being close to someone again before having it ripped away.

Harry stuffs his things into his suitcase as quickly as he can while lost in thought. Once he’s on the road, should he ring Louis? He certainly can’t ring the regular police. It would be difficult, maybe impossible, to explain the situation to someone who doesn’t already know about witches and hunters. They’d think Harry was mad.

Could he ring the High Coven? Normally, if a witch finds out they’re being hunted, the High Coven provides protection until the threat is eliminated. Somehow, Harry doesn’t think they would be willing to dispatch some of their most powerful witches to protect someone who’s been formally disowned.

No matter who he chooses to ask for help, Harry realizes he _does_ need to ring Niall and make up an excuse for quitting on such short notice.

Once everything’s packed, Harry heads for the door. He pulls his suitcase in one hand and slaps his back pockets with the other to make sure he’s got his keys and mobile. He backs out the door, groaning softly when he feels light rain on his shoulders, and pulls his suitcase over the doorframe. He fiddles with his keys for a moment, intending to lock up.

“Going somewhere?” a familiar voice says, a little too innocently.

“Fuck.” Harry drops the keys and whirls around. He's hyper-aware of how the cold metal of the gun, still tucked into his trousers, presses into his lower back. He doesn’t go for it just yet.

Zayn’s standing in front of him less than ten metres away, evidently on his way to the front door. He’s pretending to look disappointed to see Harry leaving.

Harry’s not buying it.

When he doesn’t answer right away, Zayn starts. “Just thought you might want to know that I bought myself some time.”

“To do what?” Harry growls. “Kill me?”

Zayn’s face morphs from disappointment to shock. “Harry, wh–”

The second Zayn takes a step forwards, Harry’s hand goes for the gun. He’s shaking, terrified, as he points it straight at Zayn's chest. He prays Zayn doesn’t have another one.

Zayn raises his hands and steps back. “Is this how you always react when guys leave before you wake up?”

“You think this is funny?” Harry asks coldly, finger hovering over the trigger. Sweat pools in his armpits as his panic tries to escape his body.

“I’m trying to keep it light as I try to figure out what the fuck is going on!” Zayn cries.

And then Harry sees it through his anger and fear: genuine confusion in Zayn’s face. Unlike Harry, Zayn’s expressions typically give away his emotions, whether he likes it or not.

Or maybe that’s what Zayn wants him to believe. Harry takes his finger off the trigger but doesn’t lower the gun.

“I had a vision this morning. A dream.”

“Okay,” says Zayn hesitantly, hands still in the air.

“I was in the room with a man on his mobile, and you were on the other line. Short, kind of bristly dark hair. Simon, I assume?”

Zayn nods.

“He said you had to kill me.”

Zayn looks irritated now. “Yes, well, that isn’t really news to you, is it?”

Harry feels his cheeks redden.

“I’ve been able to cross your spell boundary, haven’t I?” Zayn continues. “That proves I made up my mind not to hunt you! Now can you put that down, please?”

Harry doesn’t move, the gun still trained on the centre of Zayn’s chest. “All that means is that up until last night you decided not to kill me. I see the future, remember. I think you’re going to change your mind soon, if you haven’t already.”

Zayn’s exasperated. “Why would one more call with Simon, in which he repeats the same thing he’s been repeating for days, change my mind?”

Harry exhales slowly. He’s starting to wonder whether Zayn might actually be telling the truth. If that’s the case, Harry knows that what he says next will crush him. Unfortunately, there’s no way around it.

“Because Simon also said that your family doesn’t want you back if you don’t kill me.” He pauses for a moment, watching the pain ripple across Zayn’s face. “And…” he trails off.

“Go on,” Zayn says flatly, more a statement than a question.

“They’ll send someone to hunt _you_ if you don’t do it. Because it would be disloyal to your Council. They’ll _kill_ you if you don’t kill me,” Harry finishes, finally lowering the gun to point at the ground. “And I suppose I die in either scenario."

“Could you hear what I said back?” Zayn asks, brows furrowed.

Harry shakes his head.

“Then you must think very poorly of me,” Zayn spits, turning immediately on his heel.

This wasn’t the way Harry expected this to go. He thought Zayn would try to suck up to him, convince him it was all lies. He even prepared for the possibility of some sort of shoot-out. He did not prepare for Zayn’s feelings to get hurt. Harry says nothing for a moment, his brain not computing.

“Wait, what?” he says eventually, still standing at the door. He shivers; the rain on his bare skin starting to give him a chill.

Zayn turns to face Harry but continues to walk backwards towards his car. “Let me get this straight. I gave you my word I’m not going to hunt you. I let you keep my antique Tiffany revolver, which is worth tens of thousands of pounds, by the way.…”

Harry glances down at the gun still hanging loosely from his hand. The design makes sense now.

“…And you just pointed that revolver at my chest, because you _assume_ that if someone threatens my life, I’ll kill you. Despite the fact that if I wanted to finish this hunt, I would have done it by now.” Zayn stops, halfway between the cottage and his car. “Is that correct?”

“Yes?” Harry responds, rather meekly.

Zayn snorts. “Glad that's sorted.” He turns and resumes his path away from the cottage, calling over his shoulder. “I did come here to ask your advice on how to speak to my family, but I guess since you _and_ my family want me dead now, I’ll see myself out."

And then, just like last night, Harry loses control of himself again. It's like the roles are reversed, as if Zayn's put _him_ under a spell. He feels his feet carrying him forwards and watches himself reach out with his free hand. The needy, desperate feeling in his chest screams at Zayn not to leave, although all he says out loud is, “Wait.”

Harry grabs Zayn’s hand and, miraculously, he turns back to face him instead of shrugging him off. Before Harry can lose his nerve, he wraps his other arm around Zayn and pulls him close until their chests nearly touch. The cold metal in his hand presses against the small of Zayn’s back, almost as if Harry’s daring him to try to leave again.

Harry searches Zayn’s pretty eyes for a hint of the desperation clawing its way out from deep within his own chest. And now that he’s up close he can see that it _is_ there, written all over his face despite the confusion and uncertainty.

When Harry feels Zayn intertwine his shaking fingers with his own, he knows that this is the point of no return, his last chance. Harry takes it, pulling Zayn in even closer.

It’s a remarkably soft kiss, Harry thinks, given the anger and fear still tumbling through both of them. Relief floods through his body like an anaesthetic, his limbs suddenly much too heavy for him to manage. Despite being slightly taller, he melts into Zayn, who pulls him in closer by the waist.

Zayn tastes like fucking smoke, but for once, Harry doesn’t care. He brings one hand up to cup Zayn's cheek, fingers damp from the rain droplets dotting his face.

With his eyes still closed, Harry pulls away just enough to rest his forehead on Zayn’s. He stays like that, one hand settling at the nape of Zayn's neck and the other remaining around his waist. “Please stay,” he whispers.

When Zayn doesn’t answer right away, Harry opens his eyes to see that he’s looking back at him, exasperated.

“You’re a mess, Harry.”

Harry closes his eyes again, content enough for the time being, and lays his head on Zayn’s shoulder. “It's your fault,” he mumbles against the skin of Zayn’s neck. The smell of his cologne, that sweet citrusy scent, is intoxicating.

Zayn chuckles, but unwraps Harry’s arm, the one still holding the gun, from around his waist.

Harry begrudgingly straightens up, dropping Zayn’s hand and allowing for a little space between them.

“I’m glad that you seem to have come to your senses, but can we please put that away now?” Zayn asks, with a nod towards Harry’s hand. “I know you wouldn't have hurt me, but you waving that around is still making me nervous.”

“And how do you know that?” Harry demands in mock irritation when he sees the smirk playing on Zayn’s lips. It's disturbing, but Harry’s not so sure that he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger if Zayn really did come here to kill him. He’s curious to hear why Zayn's so confident.

Zayn raises his eyebrows, eyes twinkling. “I know you were trying to act hard, so I don’t want to take that away from you…but you have to cock it before you shoot. Nothing would have happened if you only pulled the trigger.”

Harry feels his face go red. “Yeah, well. The average person doesn’t get taught how to use illegal firearms, do they?” Half trying to save face, half genuinely interested, Harry brings the gun closer to his face to look at it once again. “Did I hear you correctly when you said this was…Tiffany?”

“Yeah. It’s a Colt Single Action Army revolver from the late 1800’s, designed by Tiffany. It was my grandad’s,” Zayn explains, gazing at it fondly.

Harry blinks. “The only words I understood in that sentence were ‘1800’s’ and ‘Tiffany.’”

Zayn sighs. “It’s an American cowboy gun. A very expensive one.” He laughs at Harry's unimpressed expression.

It's the only sound Harry wants to hear for the rest of the night.

“Alright,” Zayn chuckles. “I think we’re done trying to kill each other now, so let’s put it away, yeah?” He holds one hand out expectantly.

The lightness of Harry’s relief is instantly replaced with a flash of fear. Harry wonders why Zayn is asking for the gun back if he doesn’t plan to use it. _Because it’s his, and it’s valuable, and he knows how to keep it safe?_ Harry reminds himself.

While that’s all true, Harry _was_ threatening Zayn with it two minutes ago. Who’s to say Zayn won’t point it straight back at him the second he relinquishes it? Harry’s gaze flickers from the gun to Zayn’s eyes several times.

Zayn’s eyebrows rise higher and higher the longer he hesitates.

Finally, Harry says, “I’m gonna lock it up again.”

Zayn looks at Harry hard, opening and closing his mouth a couple times as if he’s deciding whether or not he wants to say something else. Evidently, he decides against it. “Okay,” he agrees, with a rigidity in his jaw that wasn’t there a moment ago.

Harry reaches out to take Zayn’s hand again and they nod at each other, silently agreeing to move forwards.

Harry’s careful to keep the gun out of Zayn’s reach as he leads him back inside.


	6. intoxicated it’s true, when i’m with you

“Why are you so _cold_?” Zayn groans. He can’t believe he’s willingly wrapping himself in a blanket on a July afternoon, especially when he's already wearing a jumper, but Harry’s body heat is non-existent. It’s actually more like body aircon.

He’s cocooned in a blanket and tucked into the crook of Harry’s arm on his bed, right where Harry had led him after their dramatic kiss-and-make-up outside.

“Are you sure you’re not actually a vampire?” he asks.

“I don’t sparkle in the sunlight, do I?” Harry retorts, letting Zayn’s head slip onto the pillow momentarily while he pulls himself up to remove his shirt. “Why are you so _warm_?” He slips his arm back underneath Zayn’s neck so that they’re properly cuddling now, each with their own method of temperature control.

Zayn eyes Harry's now-bare chest. It's mad how beautiful he is – the long curls that always fall into his face, the ridiculous purple nail polish he’s got on today, the barely-there stubble that scratched his chin a moment ago. _You may as well sparkle_ , Zayn thinks.

“I’m normal temperature,” is what he says out loud, nestling closer into Harry. “At least, I think I am. I’ve never had any complaints.”

They lay there for a several minutes, not speaking, but not needing to. Zayn is grateful for the silence, punctuated only by the rain now pounding against the window, as he tries to process everything that just happened. On the one hand, he feels despair from learning that his community sees him as a failure. On the other, he’s filled with the exuberance that comes with a first kiss. And then there's the fact that Harry threatened him with his own revolver, then refused to return it. Zayn knows rationally that he should be more wary, that he shouldn't trust Harry, but something in his gut assures him that he can. Harry wouldn't have done it even if he knew how to shoot the revolver. He can't explain how he knows, but he does. He'd bet his life on it.

Zayn's ultimately unable to sort out the ten different trains of thought swirling around his brain. He closes his eyes and focuses on the soothing sensation of Harry absent-mindedly rubbing his back.

“You okay?” Harry whispers eventually.

“Not really,” Zayn mumbles, sounding very small.

“I bet Simon was just bluffing. About your family not wanting you back, I mean. He seemed really pissed off, so maybe he just said whatever he thought would convince you.”

“Maybe,” Zayn mumbles, still sounding small.

Harry shifts his weight so his face is level with Zayn’s. “I’ll take care of you. We’ll take care of each other,” he whispers, eyes flicking back and forth between Zayn’s, as if he’s searching for something unspoken. “I get it if you don’t believe me, but….” He trails off, pressing another kiss to Zayn’s lips.

Zayn returns it fully, breathing in the scent of Harry’s skin. “I understand why you reacted to your vision that way. I'm sure it's hard to trust people now, after everything you've been through.”

Something Zayn can’t quite identify flits across Harry’s face. Anger? Shame? Irritation?

“Okay,” is all Harry says.

Zayn has the distinct feeling he’s smacked into an impenetrable wall in Harry’s psyche, one that protects something he’s not quite ready to explore. He decides not to push it.

In searching for a change in topic, Zayn remembers that he hasn’t even told Harry about Liam yet. “By the way, I reckon we’ve got a good while before I get that call from Simon.”

“Why’s that?”

“I saw my best mate Liam at that occult shop today. Simon sent him to check in on me since I stopped answering his calls.”

“What?!” Surprised, Harry props himself up on his elbow.

Some of his hair spills over to tickle Zayn’s face in the process; Zayn blows it away and scratches the itch on his nose.

“Sorry,” Harry smiles, running his hand through his hair until it's back in place. “Simon is the most impatient prick I’ve ever encountered. That alone would be driving me mad, if I were you. What did you tell your friend?”

“I fed him this whole story. I said I'm not answering Simon’s calls because every time I say my plans out loud, I run the risk of you hearing them in a vision.”

“Huh,” Harry says, with the same impressed expression Liam had worn. “That’s actually really smart. Can’t say I ever thought about it like that.”

Zayn laughs. “Why does everyone look so shocked that I had a good idea? I paid attention in my training, you know.”

“You’re too pretty to be smart,” Harry yawns, settling down on his back again.

Zayn scoffs but chooses to let it go.

“That’s good though,” Harry continues. “It means we’ll be safe here a little longer. Gives us some time to figure out what the fuck we’re gonna do next.”

Zayn nods. His heart swells at the way Harry keeps talking about them as a pair. “Can we do something to get our minds off it for now?” he asks, not wanting to spend all his time snuggled next to Harry thinking about such a dreary topic.

Harry tilts his head towards Zayn. “Of course! What do you want to do?”

“This,” Zayn smiles playfully as he pulls Harry in closer, crushing the duvet between them. He’s a little embarrassed by the involuntary groan he makes when his hands finally get to explore the skin of Harry’s broad shoulders. Especially when he can feel Harry’s smug grin against his own lips.

He bites at Harry’s bottom lip in retaliation before pulling away so that he can look him in the eyes. “You’re laughing at me, but _I’m_ not the one who had too much tequila, flirted like a child, and begged me to sleep over.”

Harry scrunches his nose up in a way that makes him look like an annoyed little kid. “I got nervous when I saw your tattoo of that girl. I had to make it obvious and see whether you’d flirt back,” he mumbles.

“I’m only teasing,” Zayn says, kissing Harry on the nose and smiling at his disgruntled expression. “It was cute.”

While Zayn could lay in bed like this all day, there _is_ something else he’s been wanting to do. He’s almost scared to admit to himself how much he wants to watch Harry do some magic. Like, some real Harry Potter-type stuff.

“I was also wondering if…if I could watch you do some magic?” Zayn asks. After so many years of viewing magic as forbidden, it feels dangerous to even say out loud.

Harry gasps and sits straight up, leaving Zayn’s shoulder to bounce onto the bed. “Really?”

Zayn nods, knowing he looks a little bashful.

“You can help me practice what Lou’s been teaching me!” Harry jumps to his feet and rummages through the desk in the corner of the room, flipping through loads of loose paper. “I think I have the perfect…if I can just find…” he mumbles to himself.

Harry’s desk is incredibly unorganized, although Zayn doesn't consider himself qualified to comment on others’ organization. He was the kid at school who always did his homework but managed to lose it before it made its way to his teacher.

Harry finally finds what he was looking for and reads from the top of the page. “Aha! ‘Heal Your Heart Potion.’ A lot of what Louis does is physical healing, but he gave me some stuff for mental health too. I’ve been meaning to try one of these potions. This one says it’s good for ‘dulling emotional pain and bringing comfort.’ I think it’ll make you feel better.”

Zayn motions for Harry to let him see, and Harry obliges, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Zayn. Zayn scans the instructions. “So basically, it’s like…a fast-acting, temporary antidepressant?

“Yeah, if we do it right!” Harry says, almost gleeful in his excitement.

“I probably shouldn’t help then; I don’t know what I’m doing at all.”

“Oh stop,” Harry says, waving a hand as if to banish Zayn’s nerves. “It’s basically making tea. Plus, it’ll work better for you if you help prepare it.”

“Okay,” says Zayn uncertainly, getting up to follow a still-shirtless Harry to the kitchen.

Harry whisks around the room collecting mugs, a spoon, a tea strainer, loose leaf tea, milk, a bottle of honey, a vial of vanilla, and some sort of spice on the counter. He mutters to himself, looking for something, and disappears back into his bedroom.

Zayn rotates the mugs towards him to read what's written on them. One says, “this might be wine” in script. The other reads, “100% THAT WITCH.” Zayn shakes his head. He’d think they were purchased ironically if they were in any other kitchen.

Harry returns, holding a little wooden box.

“Nice mugs.”

“Thanks!” Harry says brightly.

Zayn tries to keep a straight face as he claims the “this might be wine” mug for himself. Definitely not ironic.

“Okay, so…” Harry starts, surveying their ingredients, then consulting the recipe again. “We’re making tea with milk instead of water. Can you pour the milk in?” He fishes out a saucepan and switches on the hob.

Zayn pours roughly two mugs-worth of milk into it, looking to Harry for more instruction.

“Now you want to sprinkle in a little cinnamon and vanilla.”

Zayn picks up the little bottles hesitantly. Harry slides behind him, arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder. Which is pretty distracting, quite frankly. “How much of each?” he asks.

“However much you want,” Harry says, his throat vibrating against Zayn’s shoulder.

“Doesn’t the recipe tell you how much?”

“It just says a sprinkle. Magic is really personal," Harry explains. A lot of spells and recipes are more like suggestions. You can modify them according to what feels right for you, especially as you learn more.”

Zayn taps out a dash of cinnamon. He adds a few more drops of vanilla than he intended when Harry surprises him by kissing his neck.

“Good thing this isn’t a precise science, then,” he says with a sideways look at Harry. He tries to look annoyed, but it’s nearly impossible when he sees Harry’s impish grin.

“Sorry,” Harry giggles into his neck. “Next thing is to mix in a big spoonful of honey. Stir clockwise once to welcome comforting energy, then stir counter-clockwise once to banish negative emotions.”

Zayn follows Harry’s instructions. Then, on a whim, he stirs clockwise a second time. He feels like he’s more focused on bringing in positive emotions rather than banishing negative ones.

“There you go,” Harry murmurs approvingly. “Now wait for it to simmer. When it does, you can switch off the heat and drop the tea leaves in to steep.”

Zayn returns the spoon to the counter and leans back into Harry, closing his eyes. He likes that Harry’s slightly broader and taller than him, likes being completely enveloped like this. _Even if he is cold_ , Zayn thinks. He rests his head on Harry’s lightly, breathing in the mixture of scents and listening to the rain on the roof.

Harry continues to hold Zayn, swaying him back and forth slowly until they both hear the milk start to bubble.

“Okay, this part I’m going to help you with, because Lou’s been teaching me how to use crystals. Can you open that box for me?”

Zayn does, running his fingers over the multi-coloured crystals inside. Some are smooth, some are rough. Most of them are opaque, while a few translucent ones reflect a glare from the kitchen light.

“We need the rose quartz. That pink one.”

“What do we do with it?” Zayn asks, rubbing his finger across the rough edges of the stone.

“Crystals channel and strengthen magical energy. Rose quartz helps with soothing and self-love. Remember when I taught you how to centre yourself?”

Zayn nods.

“This is almost the same thing, except I want you to charge the crystal with energy borrowed from the earth. That way you won’t use up all your own energy and tire yourself out.”

Zayn is starting to feel a little nervous again. “How do I do that? How do I know how much I’ll need? I don’t want to mess it up.” His stomach does a little flip when he feels Harry’s lips on his neck again.

“You can’t mess it up, because I’m going to do it with you,” Harry murmurs into his skin. “We’ll have more than enough energy between the two of us. Imagine it flowing from the ground into you and then into the crystal, and pay attention to how it feels in your hand. That’ll explain what you need to do better than I could.”

Zayn nods, still nervous but willing to try. “Okay.”

“Hold out your hands.”

Zayn cups the quartz in his palms and Harry envelopes them in his own, curling his fingers down over the crystal. He can feel Harry’s breathing slow down as he focuses, so he tries to do the same. He pictures his feet growing roots through the floor, sucking up nutrients from the soil below. Before long, he can feel a trickle of warmth rising through the soles of his feet. And curiously, he’s starting to feel it not just inside him, but outside as well. Zayn can’t help but smile.

“Harry, do you realize you get warm when you do magic?”

“Mmmm,” Harry hums, sounding very far away.

Zayn mentally shushes himself and gets back to concentrating. It’s quite strange, but Zayn can feel a euphoric sensation travelling up his body and back out through his fingertips.

After a moment, Harry shakes his arms out, almost as if coming out of a trance. “I reckon it’s charged now. Push the energy out into the tea.”

Harry guides Zayn’s hand over the pot, copying Zayn’s earlier motions – clockwise, counter-clockwise, then clockwise again. When he lets go of Zayn’s hand, Zayn returns the crystal carefully back into the box.

“Okay, last step,” Harry says, finally straightening up and beginning to release Zayn. Zayn thinks to protest for a second, but Harry’s hands only retreat as far as Zayn’s waist. He rests them there, his forehead against the back of Zayn’s head. “Basically, do the opposite we just did with any extra energy you feel inside you. If you don’t return the excess into the ground, you’re gonna feel like you’re on speed in a couple minutes.”

Zayn laughs but does what he’s told, releasing the borrowed warmth down through the imaginary roots below his feet. Out of curiosity, Zayn covers one of Harry’s hands with his own. Ice cold again, just as he'd expected.

“So, what did you think?” Harry asks, busying himself by straining the tea, or rather, potion, into their mugs.

The way he asks reminds Zayn of himself as a child, barely concealing his nervous excitement as he presented a drawing to his mum, hoping she would fawn over him and hang it on the refrigerator for everyone to see.

“It felt really nice,” says Zayn, taking the warm mug in his hands. “Actually,” he smiles, thinking of the way Harry held him and kissed his neck, “I’m not even sure I need the tea itself anymore.”

“Oh, shut it,” Harry says, giving Zayn’s shin a little kick, but looking exceedingly pleased with himself. “Make yourself useful and bring these into the sitting room.”

Zayn does so as Harry begins assembling fruit and tea biscuits on a tray in the kitchen. He sits on the sofa and sniffs the tea hesitantly. While the cinnamon and vanilla smell good mixed with the tea leaves, he’s not quite sure he’ll like the taste. He’s used to a regular black tea with milk and sugar, or his mum's chai. But this is like…milk with ingredients.

Harry comes in with a tray laden with tea biscuits, strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries. “I’m so hungry,” he says, barely setting the tray down before he’s got two biscuits in his mouth. He reclines next to Zayn and watches him eye his tea suspiciously. “Take your medicine.” He wags his finger in Zayn’s direction, crumbs on his lips.

Zayn gives the potion one more sniff before he raises it to his mouth to take a swig. And…it’s not terrible. It's not great, but it's fine. By his third swallow he’s amazed to feel it already taking effect. His chest and face feel a little flushed, and his arms feel light. Almost like the light buzz of euphoria he feels when he gets ready to go out with his mates, knowing he’s on the precipice of having a really good night.

He looks up and sees Harry watching him with a smile on his face, licking the sweet juice of a strawberry off his fingers. He's obviously pleased with himself. Zayn plucks a handful of blackberries off the tray and pops them in his mouth as Harry takes a swig from his own mug.

“You know, real magic is a lot less theatrical than I pictured," Zayn says.

“What did you expect it to look like?”

“I dunno.” Zayn shrugs, helping himself to some biscuits. “I never thought about it too much, but I probably expected wands and sparks and…criminal activities.”

Harry laughs. “Well, that stuff certainly isn’t unheard of. Guess it just depends on what kind of witch you are. I like to keep it lowkey. Potions, cooking, sigils…stuff that isn’t too flashy.”

“What’s a sigil?” That’s a word Zayn’s never heard before.

“It’s a symbol you create that strengthens whatever spell you’re casting. I usually charge mine with fire or lay them out to catch moonlight, stuff like that. Although,” Harry says with a conspiratorial raise of the eyebrow, “you can also charge them with a drop of blood. Or an orgasm. There’s a touch of drama for you.”

Zayn splutters around the mouthful of tea he was in the middle of swallowing. “Excuse me?”

“If you direct your energy towards the sigil as you come, that’ll charge it,” Harry says matter-of-factly, as if he’s explaining that humans need air to breathe.

It would be easier to flirt back at Harry if he was a bit more subtle. Zayn doesn’t quite know how to counter such brazenness, so he settles for keeping the conversation going. “You’ve made it clear that I know next to nothing about witches, so I’m curious. What did you know about hunters before you met me?”

“You’re kind of like bogeymen to us, I suppose,” Harry says thoughtfully, placing a raspberry and blackberry in his mouth at the same time. “When my sister and I were small, I remember my mum threatening that we’d be hunted if we didn’t behave.”

“That’s…dark,” Zayn says, feeling guilty. He looks down at the biscuit he just grabbed, turning it over a few times before biting into it. “The whole point of bogeymen is that they’re not actually real.”

Harry shrugs. “It is what it is.”

When Harry reaches for another strawberry, Zayn notices that his blood red nail polish perfectly matches the colour of the fruit.

“Wait a second!” Zayn exclaims. “Did your nails change colour? I could have sworn they were purple earlier.”

He'd wondered the same thing the previous evening, not sure whether his eyes were playing tricks on him. At first, he thought he must have imagined the change from red to pink. Now, having seen it happen again, he's certain his perception was correct.

“You're right, they have changed,” Harry says happily, holding his hand straight out to examine the colour. “They’re charmed with colour magic to give me a boost of whatever I need in the moment. Intuition, protection, soothing, support, so on and so forth.”

“And what does the red do?” Zayn raises an eyebrow, quite sure he already knows the answer.

Harry shrugs, unsuccessfully hiding the beginnings of a smirk. “Can’t remember.”

Amused, Zayn watches Harry lean back into the sofa and eat his strawberry. He can see the evidence of the fruit on his lips, red juice mixing with the darker stain of blackberries. The sharpness of Harry's jaw is emphasized by his chewing. It's aggravating to Zayn how good Harry looks doing _anything_ , even something so commonplace as eating.

The potion and the attraction charm from Harry's nails are surely part of what’s making Zayn want to reach out and touch so badly, but most of it is Harry’s natural charisma. The attraction Zayn feels for him is undeniable. They’ve been hurtling towards this union since they first locked eyes. And because that’s so unfair, Zayn decides he’s not going to let Harry get his way by being a tease.

“If you want something, all you have to do is ask," he says.

“If it's that obvious, why waste my breath?” Harry’s smirking again, licking juice off his fingers.

Zayn rolls his eyes and settles back into the sofa. “Unlike you, I’m not a mind reader. If you want something, you’re going have to ask for it.”

“I’ll thank you to remember that I’m not a mind reader either. I see the future.” Harry crosses his arms, looking smug.

“Alright,” Zayn returns casually. “Let me know when you figure out what’s in store for our future, then.”

Harry narrows his eyes, and Zayn can tell that he doesn’t typically have to work to convince people to sleep with him. Especially not with his words. Zayn likes that; it makes it a challenge.

A moment passes, during which he wonders if Harry will even make a move. Then, without a word, Harry swings one leg over Zayn so that he’s straddling him. Zayn allows himself to be pulled into a deep kiss, tongue relishing the sticky-sweet juice of a strawberry still on Harry’s lips. He leans into Harry, sliding his hands up his bare back, but knows he must restrain himself. He’s enjoying Harry’s reaction to his aloofness far too much to let him off the hook that easily.

Zayn pulls away just so slightly, so that his lips brush against Harry’s as he speaks, and breathes, “What do you want?”

“I want you to stop fucking around,” Harry growls.

“Okay,” Zayn says simply. He tries his best to keep a straight face as he ducks under one of Harry’s arms and makes to extricate himself. “No more fucking around.”

Harry’s eyes flash, and he pulls Zayn back under him.

Zayn leans forwards and starts trailing kisses up Harry’s neck, from his collarbone to his earlobe. He did so to hide his laughter, but now that he’s here, he's intoxicated by the mixture of Harry's vanilla cologne and the natural smell of his skin. Zayn nips his neck with his teeth, causing Harry’s breath to come out as a soft sigh.

“Tell me what you want, Harry,” Zayn whispers right into his ear. It’s no longer a request, but a demand.

With a little gasp, Harry grinds down into Zayn’s lap.

So _this_ is the game they’re going to play. When Zayn gets no response other than Harry moving to kiss _his_ neck, he leans away, catches Harry’s jaw in his hand, and brings him back to eye level.

“Tell me,” Zayn says, and this time it’s his turn to smirk.

Harry’s eyes search Zayn’s for a moment, looking for an escape route. He doesn’t find one, evidently, so he drops his eyes and mumbles something barely audible.

Zayn might worry he was making Harry uncomfortable, if he couldn't feel Harry getting harder against his stomach each time he speaks.

He shakes Harry’s jaw slightly and tilts it up. “Look at me when you speak to me. I can’t hear you.”

Harry obediently lifts his eyes to look into Zayn’s and whispers, audibly this time, “I want you to touch me.”

“Where?” Zayn asks, rubbing his thumb along Harry’s bottom lip, his own cock aching now. Something about seeing Harry like this, his ever-present bravado forgotten for the time being, makes Zayn want him even more.

Harry lets out a shaky breath. “Everywhere.”

And that’s good enough for Zayn, who pulls him in as close as possible for a needy kiss. He inhales Harry’s sweet breath greedily, licking away the last of the fruits’ juices.

If Harry wants Zayn to touch him everywhere, he will. He runs his hands over his strong biceps; his tattooed chest, and his thighs, which continue to frame his lap. He threads his fingers through the thick hair at the back of Harry’s head and pulls slightly, eliciting a soft groan.

Harry’s fully hard after a few minutes of this, desperately grinding against Zayn for some friction.

Zayn, wondering why they’re still clothed, unbuttons his shirt and tosses it to the floor. He kisses across the birds on Harry’s chest as he unbuttons Harry’s trousers. “Take these off.”

When Harry stands to step out of his trousers, Zayn leans back to admire all of him, from his flushed cheeks down to his strong calves. His eyes flick up and down, not sure which part of Harry he likes to look at most.

“Not those,” he says, as Harry makes to pull off his pants. Zayn leans forwards and trails kisses down from Harry’s navel, simultaneously rubbing Harry through his pants.

When Harry threads one hand through Zayn’s hair, clearly melting into his touch, Zayn decides he’s not done teasing him yet. He stops touching him momentarily, enjoying watching Harry’s face shift from bliss to despair. Instead, Zayn uses both hands to shimmy the waistband of Harry’s pants down ever so slightly. As he kisses along the now-exposed skin of his hipbone, he can feel Harry’s hand attempting to guide him back in the direction of his cock. He indulges him briefly, mouthing him over his pants, before pulling away to shimmy them down a little further. He chuckles when he hears Harry’s irritated groan, and looks up to see him rolling his eyes with a smile on his face.

Zayn continues his torture for another minute or so. When he decides to have mercy on Harry and finally removes his pants, he has to remind himself to breathe. Harry’s so gorgeous that Zayn could melt into a puddle on the floor, which suddenly makes him feel a lot less authoritative. “Don’t move,” he says softly.

He takes Harry’s cock in his hand, teasing the head back and forth across his bottom lip. He never breaks eye contact, gleefully watching Harry’s reaction as his breath comes out in hisses. When he finally uses his tongue to slowly lick the head, Harry’s hips buck forwards involuntarily as he swears through gritted teeth.

Zayn pulls back again, smirking. The best part of giving orders is watching them be disobeyed. “I’ll have to stop if you can’t follow my instructions.”

Harry looks desperate, like he might scream if Zayn keeps fucking with him, and it’s perfect.

“Are you going do as you’re told?”

Harry nods quickly.

“You sure?” Zayn’s stern expression breaks for a moment. He can’t help but laugh a little, gently, at the look on Harry’s face.

“Mhm,” Harry hums, nodding again.

“Good.”

When Zayn leans back in this time, he gives Harry what he’s been waiting for. Harry moans shakily and threads his fingers into Zayn’s hair, but, for the most part, does as he’s told and stays still.

Zayn can feel Harry’s thighs twitching more and more as time passes, as if he’s barely fighting the instinct to fuck into his mouth. When that realization makes Zayn’s own ache unbearable, he rises up to kiss Harry deeply. Harry meets him eagerly, pressing his body flush against Zayn’s.

Zayn wants to watch Harry completely unravel, piece by piece. “Bed,” he says into Harry’s mouth.

Still kissing, Harry stumbles backwards in the vague direction of the hallway. Zayn catches him just before his shoulder smacks into a wall. Harry laughs, turning the right way round so he can pull Zayn into the bedroom by the hand. He makes himself comfortable on the bed while Zayn goes for the bedside table.

“Do you have…good.” Zayn answers his own question, collecting a condom and lube from the top drawer. He climbs onto the bed over Harry, the chain around his neck dangling between them. Then he asks a question they both already know the answer to, just because he wants to hear Harry say it.

“So,” Zayn starts, a smile dancing across his lips. “Are you going to fuck me…or am I going to fuck you?”

Harry drags his nails down Zayn’s back, arching his hips in search of friction. “Please, Zayn.”

The way Harry is completely undressed under him and desperate for his touch, all while Zayn still has his trousers on, nearly makes his head explode. He leans down to give Harry a soft, chaste kiss. “You haven’t answered my question, love.” His tone is patient and gentle, but in reality, he feels just as desperate as Harry looks.

“Fuck me Zayn, please,” Harry begs between needy kisses, removing Zayn’s belt.

Zayn doesn't have to be asked twice. As he shuffles back to remove his trousers and open the lube, Harry makes to turn over.

“Uh-uh.” Zayn shakes his head, stopping Harry by laying a hand on the inside of his thigh. “I want to be able to see see your pretty face when I fuck you.”

Harry’s cheeks, already flushed with arousal, somehow turn even rosier.

Zayn smiles, thinking that Harry actually looks a bit shy. “You’re gorgeous,” he reassures him, leaning back down for a kiss.

Harry wraps his arms around Zayn, pulling him in closer.

When Zayn presses one slick finger inside him, Harry moans into his mouth. Zayn hums back in satisfaction as Harry grinds down on it. He lets him adjust to the motion of one finger before adding a second, kissing him all the while. Zayn hasn’t even been touched yet, but between the heat around his fingers and the way Harry’s licking into his mouth, it doesn’t bode well for him lasting long at all.

When Harry’s stretched out enough, Zayn backs up onto his knees to fiddle with the condom and lube. His head is swimming at the way Harry’s biting his lip in anticipation, legs spread wide just for him.

Harry squirms ever so slightly when Zayn's tip presses up against his hole.

“You ready?” Zayn asks, pausing.

“Fuck’s sake Zayn, just do it!” Harry cries, smacking a fist down against the mattress.

Zayn laughs loudly, surprised. “That was a genuine question; I wasn’t teasing you!”

“Yeah, well….” Harry grins. “Carry on,” he says, motioning with one hand.

“Okay, okay,” Zayn says, rearranging his face as Harry rolls his eyes.

Harry groans and arches his back in approval when Zayn finally slides into him at an agonizingly slow pace.

Zayn pauses for another second, again letting Harry adjust. He can’t believe how good he looks: curls framing his face, a slight sheen of sweat on his chest, green eyes wide. Harry looks like he’d do anything Zayn asked, and truthfully, Zayn feels the same.

Harry’s eyes flutter closed when Zayn starts to fuck into him slowly. He grasps the bedsheets in one hand and runs the other through his hair, clearly savouring the sensation. Zayn feels like he’s going to go mad between the feeling of Harry stretched tight around him and getting to watch such an obscene display.

As Zayn speeds up to a faster pace, Harry moves to stroke himself, eyes still closed. Without missing a beat, Zayn smacks his hand away. Harry’s eyes fly open in surprise, an unspoken question in his expression. Zayn smirks and meets his gaze wordlessly, almost daring Harry to try again. A gleam appears in Harry’s eye when he realizes it’s part of the game. Slowly, he moves his right hand back down his torso. Just before he’s able to touch himself, Zayn smacks it away again. He leans forwards, pinning both of Harry’s wrists to the mattress on either side of his head. Harry squirms under him in protest when he stops moving his hips.

“I did not give you permission to touch yourself,” Zayn says silkily, his face mere centimetres from Harry’s.

“Please?” Harry breathes.

“No,” Zayn says with finality. If Harry wants it that bad, he can beg for it.

He lets go of Harry’s wrists briefly, only so that he can roughly drag Harry’s hips closer to him. Harry makes a sound like the breath’s been punched out of him as he feels Zayn push even deeper inside. Zayn pins his wrists again and resumes the motion of his hips. Harry’s moans fill Zayn’s ears as he draws him in even closer, legs wrapped around his waist.

“Please, Zayn. Please.” Harry’s properly whining now, straining unsuccessfully against Zayn’s vice-like grip.

Zayn ignores him.

“Haven’t I been good for you?” Harry asks breathlessly.

Zayn chuckles. “Not really.”

Harry tries a different tactic, biting his lip. “I want you to watch me touch myself. I want you to watch me come.”

Zayn has to admit, he’d like to see that. “Fine.” He lets go of Harry’s wrists, and Harry pulls on the back of Zayn’s neck for a messy kiss. “But you’ll come when I tell you. And not one second before.”

Harry nods, gasping at the sensation when he finally wraps his fist around himself.

Zayn backs up to his original position and fucks into Harry even faster. The sight of Harry rolling his hips up to meet his hand and back down onto Zayn is…a lot to take in.

It doesn’t take long for Harry’s breathing to start to hitch, and Zayn can see him leaking onto his fingers. “Zayn, I–”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Zayn cuts him off. His voice is low, with a dangerous edge to it.

Harry whimpers and twists against the bedsheets but stills his hand. Zayn can see that Harry could let himself fall apart right now, but that he’s trying desperately not to. Trying to be good. His fingers dig into Harry’s thighs hard as his own breathing begins to stutter.

“You have to–to ask permission first,” Zayn prompts, because he really wants to give it to him.

Harry must pick up on Zayn’s wavering resolve, beginning to slowly stroke himself again. He meets Zayn's eyes and whispers, “Please? Please can I come?”

Zayn’s surprised that he doesn’t have to coax the words out of him. It’s a far cry from his bashfulness earlier. “Go ahead, I want you to,” Zayn answers softly, his affection for Harry fully breaking through his commanding exterior.

The ragged way Harry moans Zayn’s name as he comes is enough to pull Zayn over the edge as well. He grips Harry’s thighs, fucking into him hard until they're both exhausted, heartbeats finally slowing.

Zayn, not quite sure he’ll be steady on his own yet, doesn’t pull out right away. He lets his eyes flutter closed for a moment, trying to catch his breath. When he opens them again and is greeted by Harry grinning, come desecrating the butterfly on his stomach, it’s not exactly steadying. As he finally pulls out, Harry makes a disapproving noise and reaches for his hand.

“Hang on,” Zayn says, binning the condom and searching for something to clean Harry up with. Harry watches, amused, as he grabs an old t-shirt off the top of the laundry basket and wipes him clean. Zayn tosses the soiled shirt behind him, not even bothering to see where it lands, and climbs back into bed. He sinks into Harry like dead weight, eyes closed. This is the best kind of tired, he thinks.

Harry turns towards him, hooking his leg around Zayn’s waist. Zayn lets himself be pulled closer until their foreheads touch and their legs are entwined. This time, the coolness of Harry’s skin is pleasant, like jumping into the pool after a run on a hot day. Zayn reaches out to trace his fingers down Harry’s side, savouring the dip at his waist.

“You’re a bloody…menace,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.

Harry responds with a non-committal “Mmm,” which strikes Zayn as odd.

He opens his eyes to search Harry’s sweaty, beautiful face, and tucks his tangled hair behind his ear. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Harry says, with a slight frown.

"You sure?" Zayn asks, not convinced.

Harry shifts, looking uncomfortable. "Nothing's wrong, it's just that I don't usually...erm...I'm not used to...."

"Go on," Zayn encourages, not sure where Harry's going with this.

"I'm used to doing things...the other way round." Harry looks at Zayn expectantly, waiting for him to understand.

When Zayn does understand, he's not entirely sure what to do with that information. Now it's his turn to stumble over his words. "Was it...okay?"

Harry nods quickly, and Zayn feels relief.

“Well, unless I’m really bad at reading you, and I don’t think I am,” Zayn says, with a glance towards the dirty t-shirt on the floor, “you seemed to enjoy it.”

Harry's cheeks go pink. "I did," he admits. "I just never thought it was my thing. The couple times I tried it, I felt too exposed. I couldn't relax.”

Zayn doesn't respond except to nod, not wanting to scare Harry back into his shell. He's surprised he's speaking freely about something so private, given that he usually holds his cards close to his chest. Harry acts like he needs to have control over things in the same way he needs sleep, or air, or food. Zayn threads his fingers through Harry's and brings their hands to rest between them.

“For some reason, it felt different with you. It’s hard to explain,” Harry continues, eyebrows furrowed. He’s still working it out as he speaks, almost like he’s talking to himself rather than Zayn. “You made it so that I didn’t have to think or worry or do anything other than feel. And it felt _good_.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively, grinning.

Zayn laughs, but inside he's glowing. It feels good to know that he’s earned a level of trust from Harry that most people will never see. He presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’m so glad,” he says simply, not wanting to make a fuss.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, looking at the ceiling and tracing patterns onto each other’s skin, before Zayn speaks again. “You don’t have choose one or the other, you know.”

“Hmm?” Harry hums, returning from whichever thought he got lost in.

“Top or bottom,” Zayn clarifies, turning his head to meet Harry’s eyes. “I'm cool with both.”

That mischievous look Zayn likes so much dances through Harry’s eyes. “Maybe we can try it the other way round later.”

“Maybe so,” Zayn laughs, and pulls him in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Credit for potion inspiration](https://dumbass-mothcraft.tumblr.com/post/176287040129/iframe)


	7. you thought you had me, didn't you?

Harry plans their next day’s trip to the bakery to avoid the lunch rush. He needs to pick something up, or at least, that's the official reason he gave Zayn when they laid in bed together that morning, intertwined and half clothed.

He has ulterior motives as well. One of them is that a childish delight warms his chest each time he sees Zayn in a place that used to belong to him alone. His bedroom, the pub, the bakery. Soon, his altar. The final reason, one he’d never say out loud, is that he wants to show off.

He happily inhales the strong scent of sweets as he pushes the bakery door open, Zayn in tow.

Niall looks up from his sweeping, thinking that the tinkling of the bell over the door is signalling the arrival of a potential patron. His expression changes from a formal smile to a welcoming, toothy grin when he recognises his friends. “Alright, Harry? Zayn?” he asks with a good-natured smile.

Harry can barely contain his giddiness as he watches Niall’s eyes slide from their faces down to their entwined hands.

“Oh…what have we here?” Niall asks with a raise of his eyebrow and a sly grin. Without waiting for a response, he strides over to Zayn, completely ignoring Harry. He shakes Zayn’s hand and claps him on the shoulder in the most exaggerated way possible. “Well done, lad,” he says in a congratulatory tone.

Harry rolls his eyes at the way Niall laughs and Zayn’s eyes crinkle at the corners, pretending that this wasn’t the exact reaction he was looking for. “I’m feeling objectified,” he says, with feigned petulance.

As Zayn and Niall banter back and forth at his expense, Harry can’t help but stare at Zayn in his black bomber jacket, Converse, and sunglasses. Really, Zayn can objectify him all he likes. He gets a shiver down his spine right then and there, thinking about how Zayn had gotten Harry to come undone for him yesterday. As if _he_ were the one casting spells. He shakes his head slightly, not daring to let his mind wander to how Zayn had subsequently offered himself up to Harry late last night.

“You know I’m only teasing,” Niall says with a characteristic wink. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure? You’re not scheduled today.”

“I need one of those big cat treats,” Harry nods in the vague direction of the counter. While Niall had initially been sceptical of Harry's idea to sell treats, his recipes had become a hit with pets and their owners alike. Not surprisingly, animals are just as susceptible to his magic in the kitchen. “And throw in a couple of those tarts you make. I told Zayn he needs to try one.” He stills Zayn’s hand when he reaches for his wallet.

“Coming right up,” Niall says, making his way back to the counter. He wraps each item in paper and hands them to Harry without entering anything into the till. “Employee discount.”

“Cheers,” Harry says, dropping the treat into the spacious pocket of Zayn’s jacket so he doesn’t have to squish it into his tight black jeans. He unwraps one of the tarts and takes a bite, savouring the lemony taste. He hands the other one to Zayn. “Try this. You’ll have to come back on a day I’m working to taste the good stuff, but these are the one thing Niall makes right.”

Niall leans over the counter to swat at Harry, but he ducks just in time, laughing. Zayn, ever the gentleman, ignores Harry’s jab and reassures Niall that it tastes amazing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Harry asks Niall, starting to walk backwards in the direction of the door. Usually, he’s pretty good at remembering the weekly schedule, but the events of the past day have brought other things to the forefront of his mind.

“Unfortunately,” Niall answers, rolling his eyes in jest. “Hey, we should go out again sometime this week. You can fill me in on your whirlwind romance,” he jokes as Harry turns to push open the bakery’s door.

“There’s not much to say that would be appropriate for your ears,” Harry says over his shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Harry!” Zayn exclaims, yanking him out of bakery as Niall’s laughter fills the room.

What Harry said was true, of course. Obvious innuendo aside, they could disclose little else about their relationship without mentioning witchcraft. Zayn knows this but shakes his head at Harry’s antics anyway. Harry grins, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“What’s this for, anyway?” Zayn asks as they walk back to the car. He pulls the cat treat from his pocket, gives it a sniff, and makes a face at the strong tuna smell. “I didn’t think you had a cat.”

“I don’t,” Harry explains, linking his arm with Zayn’s. “My familiar’s a cat; she lives in the woods. I want you to meet her, but she might need a little enticing. She’s quite skittish.”

“Challenge accepted,” says Zayn, dropping the treat back into his pocket.

As they drive back to the cottage and venture into the dense woods, Harry fills Zayn in on how Rhiannon had come to him. With yesterday's gloomy rain long gone, the forest is very alive. Birds flit overhead, chattering, while squirrels jump and play around them. It's cool beneath the trees, but sunlight streams between their branches to create beautiful patterns on the forest floor. There’s nothing quite like the deep green of a forest in the height of summer, Harry thinks.

“So…I’m sorry if this is obvious,” Zayn starts from behind Harry. “But what exactly _is_ a familiar?”

“They look and act like regular animals, but they’re physical manifestations of helpful spirits,” Harry explains, holding a branch aside so it doesn’t snap back against Zayn.

“But like, what do they actually do?”

“Their presence makes magic stronger, so it’s good to have one around when you cast a spell. They can also warn you of danger and retrieve spell ingredients, stuff like that. They’re also just cute and cuddly like any old-fashioned pet.”

“Mmmm,” Zayn hums in response. “So are they basically pets that can do magic?”

“Not quite…” Harry says, slightly distracted while he climbs over a log. “They choose the witch they work with instead of the other way round. And you don’t have to take care of them either; they do their own thing most of the time. We actually might have to do a spell to get Rhiannon to pop by; she doesn’t always come otherw–” Harry cuts himself off, giving Zayn a withering glare.

He'd turned to look at Zayn while he spoke, only to find Zayn with a cigarette between his lips and a lighter halfway to his mouth. Zayn freezes, like a child caught raiding the pantry for sweets.

“Not in the forest, Zayn. Please?” Harry doesn’t like smoking in general, but the idea of disrupting the aura of the forest like that really rubs him the wrong way.

Zayn sighs and returns his various paraphernalia to his pockets. “You’re going to bother me until I quit, aren’t you?”

Harry turns and resumes his lead, smiling to himself once Zayn can no longer read his expression. He reaches his hand back to catch Zayn’s, wanting him to know he’s not actually mad.

Before long, Harry’s little cave comes into view. He’s struck by the memory of the time he first saw Zayn, right here at his altar. He can’t help but laugh to himself as he leads Zayn to the cave by the hand. “Why did you run, that time you followed me here?”

Zayn looks sheepish. “I was scared! I thought you would torture me if you caught me. Or even kill me.”

Harry snorts, settling down on the mossy rock in front of his altar. _As if_.

Zayn follows, sitting cross-legged next to him. “I hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with you. I just wanted to follow you and see what you were doing.”

“Good thing you don’t like hunting, because you’re not very good at it,” Harry states matter-of-factly.

“Hey!” Zayn exclaims.

Harry feels his retaliation in the form of a sharp pinch on the back of his arm. “I’m only kidding,” he says, knowing he hasn’t gone too far when he sees laughter reflected in Zayn’s eyes. “Actually, no I’m not. You’re really bad at it and I couldn’t be happier. Come here.” Harry laughs, tapping at his bottom lip.

Zayn leans in for a kiss and Harry meets him halfway. Butterflies awaken in his stomach as he inhales Zayn's citrusy scent and feels the now-familiar scratch of stubble against his own smooth skin. He’s been trying to play it cool, but in all honesty, he can’t get enough of Zayn. It’s like both his body and heart are hungry to make up for the past several months spent nearly alone. He deepens the kiss, slipping his tongue into Zayn’s mouth and melting at the way Zayn cups his cheek.

Zayn laughs softly, breath tickling Harry’s mouth, and pulls away. “Isn’t this sacrilegious or something? Like, snogging at your altar?”

“Not if we’re not religious! Some witches do sex magic, remember?” Harry raises his eyebrows suggestively. It suddenly dawns on him that despite all their chats about interests, family, and growing up, this is a topic they haven’t yet broached. “Wait, _are_ you religious?”

Zayn sits back, leaning on his palms behind him, and gives a non-committal shrug. “I mean…I grew up Muslim, but organized religion isn’t for me. I don’t buy into all the rules they set because loads of them seem irrelevant to being a good person. To me, at least.” Zayn pauses, eyes searching the rock above them as he thinks. “I guess I still believe in God, and maybe heaven, but the only rule I follow is trying to be a good person. If you do that, I think, things will go right for you in the end.”

Harry nods, contemplating how simultaneously alike and different he and Zayn are. “When I was small, I always wished my family went to church like all my friends in primary school. I thought that being religious would give me something I could always rely on. Something I'd never lose faith in.”

Zayn smiles, following Harry’s train of thought. “Yet growing up religious is what made me lose faith.”

Harry watches Zayn curiously for a moment. He looks like he’s trying to work out something else he wants to say.

“I think you do have faith,” Zayn says, finally. “Like, your faith is in yourself. And your practice.”

Harry cocks his head in confusion. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“How do I explain…” Zayn trails off, rolling a little rock back and forth between his finger and the floor of the cave. “I think it would be easy in your situation to give up. To either go along with what your coven asked of you, or leave but give up magic because there’s no one to teach you. It would be easy to get bitter and close yourself off–”

Harry scoffs and drops his eyes to the ground, embarrassed. “I _am_ bitter and closed off.”

“You’re not hopeless,” Zayn says, tilting Harry’s chin back up until their eyes meet. “Even if it’s hard sometimes, you have all the faith you need. You believed in what you knew was right so strongly that you left your whole life and came here to start a new one. And you know so much magic–”

Harry scoffs again, but Zayn talks over him.

“–you know _so_ much magic for someone who’s had to learn it all on his own. I admire you for that.”

Harry’s cheeks burn with Zayn’s praise. While a part of him wants to preen and bask in these compliments, his gut instinct tells him that that would be dangerous. _This is all bullshit. He’s just being corny because you had a good shag; it’ll wear off._ He feels that tell-tale pressure in his chest that means it’s time to escape.

“Why does me saying that upset you?”

Harry catches the confusion on Zayn’s face and averts his gaze. It would be childish to get up and walk away, so he probably shouldn’t do that. But maybe if he waits Zayn out, he’ll forget about it.

“Tell me what you’re thinking. Please?” Zayn asks after another silent moment.

No such luck, apparently.

Harry sighs. “The way you speak about your family…I just know they’re going to take you back, regardless of what Simon says. And when that happens, I'm scared you’re going to go back home and forget about me, and I’ll be on my own again,” Harry says, through gritted teeth. “We don’t have to get all emotional, okay? It’s easier for me to play pretend and enjoy it while it lasts if we just…have fun.”

The silence that stretches between them is deafening. When Harry eventually tires of waiting for a response, he looks up to meet Zayn’s eyes. To his surprise, he finds a palpable sadness in his expression.

Zayn finally speaks. “That hurts my feelings, Harry. Honestly.”

“I just wanted to show you my cat,” Harry says, exasperated. He’s well and truly over this conversation. He makes to stand up but sits back down begrudgingly when Zayn stops him, pulling on his wrist.

“And I just wanted to compliment you on something admirable I saw in you,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “Look, whatever's going on between us right now is...intense. And I can’t say what'll happen, especially not with everything we still need to figure out. Who knows, maybe when everything feels a little less dire, we’ll realize we annoy the fuck out of each other. Or maybe, when we can actually relax, we’ll realize we like each other even more. Either way, please believe me when I say this: I’m not going to leave you here, alone, _just_ because I find out my family isn’t going to disown me.”

“Okay,” Harry nods, trying to release the tension that had collected in his shoulders. He wants Zayn to be sweet to him, of course, but it’s easier to live in a fantasy he’s created. A fantasy he can control. Once real-life Zayn starts writing his own lines, Harry can’t be sure how the scene ends.

Harry looks into Zayn’s sad eyes again, feeling stupid for having an emotional outburst in response to a genuine compliment. Zayn sounded genuine, at least. The butterflies in Harry’s stomach are now waging battle with a horde of angry moths. “Can we forget this happened?” he asks, desperate to change topics.

“No, but we can move on from it,” Zayn answers.

Harry groans, smacking Zayn’s arm. “You’re so annoying sometimes, seriously!”

Zayn’s laugh echoes around the little cave. “That's what happens when your parents force you into therapy at a young age.”

Harry waits until Zayn’s laughter dies down before he mumbles his next words. He tries his very best to meet Zayn’s eyes, because he owes him that, at least. “Thank you. And sorry for hurting your feelings.”

Zayn pecks Harry on the cheek, and Harry knows it’s his way of saying that it’s alright. “Now, where is this elusive cat anyway?”

“Like I said, we might have to do some magic so that she’ll feel the energy and know we’re here,” Harry says. He's already looking around for the box of matches among the candles.

As if she’d been waiting for her cue, Rhiannon announces her presence at the mouth of the cave with a loud meow.

“Rhiannon!” Harry exclaims happily, turning to Zayn. “I really wasn’t sure she’d turn up at all with you here.” He holds out his hand for her, but Rhiannon trots right past him to climb into Zayn’s lap. Harry’s mouth drops open in shock before melding into a pout. “It took her weeks to get that close to me! It’s probably because you have the treat in your pocket.”

Zayn grins ear to ear, stroking Rhiannon as she kneads his thighs and rubs up against his stomach. “Maybe,” he says.

Zayn’s being diplomatic, because Rhiannon hasn’t gone for the treat at all. Despite Harry's irritation at Zayn winning her affections so quickly, his heart swells when he hears her loud purring. He doesn’t think Rhiannon would come anywhere near Zayn if there were anything off about his character or intentions.

“I’ve never heard of a familiar connecting so strongly with someone who isn't a witch. She must really like you,” Harry says.

As if she’s trying to prove how much she likes Zayn, Rhiannon springs onto her back legs and rests her front paws on his chest, just below his right shoulder. She stares at him for a moment, swishing her tail, and Zayn stares back, amused. She meows again and resumes her kneading, this time on Zayn’s chest. He winces, sucking air through his teeth when her sharp claws dig into his skin.

“Come here, you little weirdo,” Harry laughs, lifting Rhiannon off Zayn with two hands under her stomach. “I like him too, so let’s not scare him off.” He lets Rhiannon situate herself in his own lap before apologizing to Zayn.

“It’s okay,” Zayn says, rubbing the minuscule puncture wounds on his chest. “I’m flattered.” Rhiannon’s purring only increases in volume when he pulls the treat from his pocket and extends his hand to her. His whole face lights up in a smile at the messy chewing sounds she makes while eating it straight out of his hand.

They stay a little while longer, Zayn playing with Rhiannon using one of her cat toys. At one point, she attempts to knead on his chest again. Harry scolds her and apologizes, not sure what's got into her. When she eventually curls up in the corner of the cave, Harry and Zayn leave her to sleep off her snack.

They make easy conversation on their way back out of the forest, Harry making a point to ferret out any other details of Zayn’s life that he hasn’t yet shared.

“What made you want to do an English degree?” he asks as the trees start to thin near the edge of the woods.

“Erm…” Zayn thinks, frowning to himself. “I don’t know that I’ve ever really thought about it. I suppose I’ve always been interested in language in general. I speak Urdu, have I told you that?”

Harry shakes his head, excited to have discovered a new fact.

“When I was small, maybe three or four, I used to translate my grandad’s mail for him because he didn’t speak much English.” Zayn smiles at the memory, snapping a twig off a tree absentmindedly. “It got me interested in languages and reading and all that.”

Harry returns Zayn’s smile, trying to imagine what he would have looked like at that age. Adorable with those big brown eyes, no doubt. He makes a mental note to ask Zayn for a picture later.

“Would you ever go to uni?” Zayn asks.

“Maybe someday. No idea what I’d go for, though. I always used to say I wanted to be a lawyer but…I just thought it sounded impressive more than anything.” Harry shrugs.

“Yeah…no offence, but I can’t really picture you as a lawyer,” Zayn laughs.

Harry pouts and shoves Zayn with his shoulder. Zayn shoves him back, and Harry returns the favour, until they’re laughing and stumbling out of the woods together.

One moment, Harry’s watching the way Zayn’s eyes crinkle at the corners with laughter. The next, his gaze is sliding past Zayn as his peripheral vision picks up motion in the distance.

Harry stops dead, the wind immediately knocked out of him. The ponies from his dream are there to their right, grazing down at the edge of the forest. Their tails swish back and forth, batting away flies as if nothing is amiss. And it isn’t, not yet.

Zayn’s expression rearranges into concern when he notices the abrupt end to Harry’s laughter. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Harry doesn’t know how to explain why adrenaline’s coursing through his body, activating his fight or flight instinct. Even in his dreams, he never saw what made the ponies spook. For all he knows, it could be nothing. He can't see anything that would be cause for alarm, at least. The warmth of the sun is pleasant on his skin, the grass sways in the slight breeze, and the birds twitter away as if nothing is amiss.

But…something about the way blood is rushing through his ears tells him that ignoring this particular vision would be very dangerous. Harry looks down at his shaking hands just in time to watch his nails turn from pink to jet black. Black for protection.

“We have to get out of here,” Harry says urgently, tugging Zayn by the hand. He doesn’t exactly feel comfortable crossing this open field, but maybe they can make it to his car if they hurry.

“What? Why?” Zayn asks, looking properly alarmed.

“I had a vision,” Harry explains curtly, trying to pull Zayn faster. “Something bad’s going to happen.”

“Shouldn’t we gather some of our things first?” Zayn questions, voice shaking.

Harry, head turned to watch the ponies even as he moves away from them, feels his chest flood with panic as the bay spooks. “We don’t have time!” he nearly shouts. He turns and breaks into a run, almost yanking a surprised Zayn to the ground with the force of his grip. With every step he feels more and more sure that they’ll make it. They’re almost to the car, maybe fifteen more metres–

From behind them, almost simultaneously, there’s a sharp crack, the sound of hooves beating the ground, and a man’s commanding voice: “Not another step.”

Harry feels himself jolt to an abrupt stop and stumble back towards Zayn like a rubber band. Zayn, whose hand he’s still holding, is responsible for the deep ache in his shoulder. _Why did he stop?_ Harry wonders wildly. _We were so close!_

No part of Harry’s brain wants to see who’s emerged from the woods. Despite this, he finds his body turning against his own will, almost in slow motion. He sees a man their age – a boy, even – dressed all in black and positioned in a shooter’s stance, pointing a huge gun straight at Harry’s heaving chest. He’s a good distance away, maybe thirty or forty metres, but certainly not out of range.

“Liam?” Zayn asks.

Harry tears his eyes away from the strange man and turns to gape at Zayn. _Liam?_ As in, Zayn’s best mate?

Harry’s eyes drop to where his hand remains entwined with Zayn’s. He’s so stunned that he can’t pull away, doesn’t know what to think. Yesterday, Zayn said he’d bought them some time. But had he just been playing with his food these past couple weeks? Harry wants to demand what’s going on, whether Zayn planned to double-cross him the whole time, but all he can manage is a hoarse, “You…?”

Zayn ignores him.

The other hunter speaks, approaching the spot where Harry and Zayn remain rooted. “What are you doing, Zayn? You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, literally,” he calls, gesturing at Zayn and Harry’s connected hands. “You don’t need to go through a whole charade, mate. Just get on with it!”

Did Zayn’s sweaty fingers just tighten around Harry’s, or did he imagine it?

“Liam, can you put the shotgun down so we can talk about this calmly?” Zayn asks. He moves to take a step towards Liam, but halts when Liam shifts to aim the gun at him instead.

“Talk about _what_? There’s nothing to talk about!” Liam nearly shouts in exasperation. He’s closer now. Maybe fifteen metres at most.

“I’m not going through with my hunt. Harry’s not dangerous to us; he hasn’t had any formal training. I’ve gotten to know him pretty well,” Zayn responds.

Harry can’t help but feel a rush of relief when Zayn shifts his weight so that he’s partially blocking Harry, making him less of an easy target. Maybe he and Zayn really are in this together.

Liam shakes his head in disbelief and returns his aim to the part of Harry that’s still exposed. “If you’ve done something to him, I’m really going to kill you,” he says, speaking directly to Harry now.

Harry recoils further behind Zayn.

“You have, haven’t you? You’ve bewitched him with one of your weird little potions or something!”

Harry shakes his head quickly, not sure he’d be able to produce any coherent words.

“He hasn’t, Liam. Please, put down the gun and I can introduce you,” Zayn begs. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he adds, in a tone that suggest he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

Liam scoffs. “It’s actually not going to be fine, Zayn. Simon’s threatened to remove me from the Order and send someone to hunt all three of us if I don’t come back with at least one of your heads. If not both.”

Zayn turns to look at Harry for the first time since they stopped running. “Both?” he whispers.

Harry looks back at Zayn, horrified.

Liam takes a different tactic, speaking in a much softer voice. “You’re my brother, Zayn, and I just want to get you out of this in one piece.”

The bizarre part of all this is that, looking into Liam’s eyes, Harry can tell that this man is genuine. He thinks he’s doing the right thing. As he’s gotten closer, Harry can see that he looks tired. Even scared.

“So, let’s be sensible,” Liam continues, speaking directly to Zayn as if Harry’s no longer there. “Finish it, or at least let _me_ finish it, and I’ll give you the credit. Then we can go home and get on with our lives.”

Suddenly, something clicks. A foggy memory surfaces from the back of Harry's mind: the view of the London skyline from the floor-to-ceiling window of a dark skyscraper.

_“I don’t care if he’s your friend. Finish the whole ordeal, or you’ll be the next one getting hunted. This Council does not tolerate disloyalty.”_

It hadn't been Zayn on the other end of that call, it was Liam. Simon hadn’t bought Zayn’s story as easily as Liam had, and now they’re all going to pay for it.

Harry finally accepts that Zayn never wanted to hurt him, even from the first time they locked eyes. A surge of affection rushes through Harry, temporarily displacing the fear.

“Why does everyone want to do me in so badly?” Harry shouts, surprising even himself with his sudden bravery.

Zayn jumps and Liam lowers his stance slightly, probably more out of shock than a truce.

“What the fuck have I done to any of you, seriously?” he demands.

Liam looks startled at the idea of having a conversation with Harry, but decides to humour him. “Obviously, you have the potential to be a dangerous diviner. And, when I spoke to Simon yesterday, he told me an awful story about how your father murdered Simon's nephew last winter. They were very close.” Liam shakes his head disapprovingly. “At first, Simon wanted to send someone to hunt your father directly. But then he realized it would be more rewarding to hurt your father in the same way your father had hurt him. All that being said, hunting you kills two birds with one stone,” Liam finishes with a nasty look.

Harry struggles to make sense of the words he just heard. Robin, his step-father, hasn't killed anyone in his life. No, Liam must be referring to his biological father, the father Harry barely knows.

Harry tries to make sure he has it straight: he’s going to be murdered because his father offed someone who was probably trying to kill him first? And Simon expects Harry's murder to be a major blow to his father, who’s been acting as if Harry were dead for nearly a decade already?

These hunters don’t fucking know _anything_. The rage boiling inside Harry overwhelms all his senses at once.

“Harry!” Zayn exclaims in pain, finally withdrawing his hand as Harry’s nails bite into its flesh.

If Harry could think straight, he would realize that dashing towards someone who already has a gun aimed at him is a bad idea. But Harry can’t think straight. All the anger he’s locked away over the course of his life is pooling into his veins like poison. He's going to fucking kill Liam, Simon, and whoever else he has to, even if he has to do it with his bare hands. Maybe he’ll even hunt down his piece of shit father for good measure.

Harry doesn’t register that his voice is being called, barely picks up on Zayn grasping for his hand and attempting to pull him backwards. Given that Harry’s much stronger than Zayn, he ends up dragging Zayn along as he closes the distance to Liam.

Out of nowhere, a blinding pain explodes in Harry’s forehead, obscuring his vision. He tries to claw his way through it, but its severity forces him to collapse. He drops to his knees and clutches his head in both hands, just in time to hear a deafening noise assault his eardrums. He can’t hear or see anything save for the ringing in his ears. Dimly, he realizes he’s been shot.

Harry remains on his knees, paralyzed, waiting to lose consciousness. To his surprise, his sight returns just as quickly as it left. He removes his hands from his head and inspects them front and back, perplexed when he doesn’t see any blood. Beyond his hands, he can see Liam’s trainers only a few metres away.

Utterly confused as to why Liam’s standing still instead of attacking him, his gaze rises from Liam’s feet to his head. Upon making eye contact, Liam recoils with a look of utter horror. This confuses Harry further. He’s on the ground, unarmed. Liam must be looking at something else.

Eyebrows furrowed, Harry turns to look behind him. His heart thuds to a stop; his lungs are suddenly without air. For a brief moment of denial, Harry’s brain refuses to process what his eyes are seeing.

Zayn is lying just behind him in the lush grass, eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep. In sharp contrast, a deep scarlet stain is spreading from his right shoulder.

Harry’s heart restarts itself by slamming into his chest insistently, urging him to _do_ something.

“What the fuck did you do?” Harry screams. He tries his best to crawl towards Zayn, despite the shock that has numbed both his arms and legs.

“I was aiming for you because you looked like you were going to claw my eyes out!” Liam responds, in a much higher-pitched voice than he’d used before. “You dropped and pulled him into the line of fire at the last second!”

Harry’s muddled brain slowly pieces together what must have happened. The pain in his head wasn’t from being shot; it had been a vision of what was about to happen. It had forced him to the ground to save his life, without regard for Zayn’s. Harry experiences a sharp pang of guilt. _This is my fault_.

He forces himself to accept that that can’t matter right now, not now that that the clean smell of grass is mixing with the rusty, heavy scent of blood. Zayn’s blood.

“Dial 999,” Harry barks as he rips his t-shirt over his head. He needs to put pressure on the wound. At least, that’s what he’s seen people do in films.

“Can’t you fix him?” Liam asks from behind him, desperation evident in his voice.

Harry whips his head around to look at Liam, incredulous. “LIKE HE _JUST_ SAID, I HAVEN’T BEEN TRAINED! FUCK!” he bellows.

Harry’s shaking with rage, but he doesn’t have any more time for Liam’s idiocy. He takes a shaky breath before using one hand to press his wadded-up t-shirt onto Zayn’s shoulder, hard. Harry’s heart jumps when the force of the movement elicits a soft whimper from Zayn, so quiet that he almost misses it. The hope it gives him is enough to distract him from the blood seeping into his trousers, at least for now. With his other hand, Harry searches for a pulse on the side of Zayn’s neck. Finding one, he holds his palm over Zayn’s mouth. He’s still breathing.

 _I’m not going to leave you here, alone_. The words Zayn had spoken not even an hour earlier ring in Harry’s ears.

Liam kneels on the other side of Zayn, white knuckles gripping his mobile to his ear as he waits for an operator to pick up.

Harry briefly wonders if he should still be concerned for his own life. After all, he _was_ the target. But when tears prick in Liam's eyes as he watches Zayn's face, which has gone unnervingly pale, Harry realizes they've formed a temporary truce. At the moment, Zayn’s life is more important to both of them than destroying each other.

“I don’t think…” Liam starts, nearly whispering. “People don’t just…survive a close-range shot like that.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, checking for Zayn’s breath again. It’s fainter than it was thirty seconds ago. His stomach feels like it’s going to crawl out of his throat.

“I just wanted to bring him home safe,” Liam says, voice breaking with tears.

“Seriously, shut the fuck up,” Harry spits. “If you’d hit me like you meant to, you’d be celebrating and dragging my body into the woods by now.”

Thankfully, Liam’s only response is to put his mobile on speaker and hold it out between them.

“Hello, emergency service operator,” says a man on the other line. “Which service do you require? Fire, police or am–?”

“Ambulance,” Harry and Liam answer simultaneously.

“I’ll just connect you now.”

Liam remains silent, holding the mobile between them, while Harry provides the new operator with the location.

“What is the nature of your emergency?” she asks.

“Someone’s been shot,” Harry says, forcing himself to speak more slowly and clearly than he feels capable of. Zayn’s blood has seeped through the shirt and is now coating his fingers.

“Are you in danger?”

Harry pauses for a millisecond that seems like a full minute. The clear answer is yes. Yes, he’s in danger. Yes, he’s been stalked and almost murdered by the man sitting across from him. When his eyes meet Liam’s, he knows Liam’s thinking the same thing.

Maybe it has to do with the tears streaming down Liam’s face. Or maybe it’s the way he just sits there, resigning himself to whatever fate Harry decides for him, instead of cutting in to make up a lie. Whatever the reason, Harry hears himself say, “No. It was an accident.”

Liam’s expression of resignation morphs into one of surprise, but he says nothing.

Harry impatiently answers the rest of the operator’s questions, all the while compulsively checking Zayn’s pulse. They follow the operator’s instructions to roll Zayn onto his side. She’s saying something about making sure his airway remains clear, but Harry’s not really listening anymore.

The pain that came with their jostling must have forced Zayn back to semi-consciousness. His eyelids flutter as he sucks in a raggedy breath. “Harry?” he whispers on the exhale.

Harry’s heart breaks to think about how much pain Zayn must be in, and he desperately wants to gather him in his arms. Knowing that it would probably hurt him even more, Harry settles for running his clean hand through Zayn’s hair. He murmurs that he's here, that help is coming, that it’ll be alright.

Truthfully, Harry’s not at all sure it’s going to be alright. There’s just so much blood everywhere; Harry’s soaked in it. The slickness of it on his hand turns his stomach, his head woozy.

Liam seats himself next to Harry and takes over speaking to the operator. He reaches out to hold Zayn’s hand, not having anything more useful to do.

Another thirty seconds goes by, then a minute. The operator had said that an ambulance would arrive in less than seven minutes. But that was maybe three minutes ago. Harry’s no doctor, but he doesn’t think Zayn has another four minutes in him.

Mere seconds later, Harry’s heart leaps when he hears a vehicle pull round the bend. It drops just as quickly as he realizes it’s only a regular car.

 _But wait, is that…_ Harry cranes his neck to get a better look at the driver.

“Oh shit!” Harry shouts, causing Liam to startle. “Hang that up and put pressure here.” Harry motions hurriedly to the bloody t-shirt on Zayn’s shoulder. “NOW,” he demands, tapping the “end call” option himself when a confused Liam doesn’t move fast enough.

Harry scrambles to his feet in seconds, waving and running full pelt towards the silver car that’s just parked next to the cottage. He screams Louis’s name at the top of his lungs, which causes Louis to jump and smack his head on the roof of the car as he makes his way out.

“Harry, what the fuck?” he complains. His irritated look turns to one of deep concern as he takes in Harry's appearance: shirtless, wild-eyed, covered in blood.

“Can you heal a gunshot wound?” Harry calls, breathless.

At first, Louis simply gapes in response. “Maybe?” It comes out like a question, the panic now evident in Louis’s voice too.

That’s good enough for Harry. He motions for Louis to follow him and takes off running again, Louis at his heels.

“Harry, what is going on?” Louis pants as they get close enough for him to see Liam leaning over Zayn. “Who are these people?”

“Hunters,” Harry says shortly, dropping back down next to Liam.

“What!?” Louis exclaims. He takes a step back, looking hesitant to get any closer to Zayn or Liam.

Liam looks just as apprehensive, shrinking away from Louis.

“We don’t have time for this. I’ll explain later,” Harry says desperately, taking one of Zayn’s hands in his own. It’s cold, much colder than Harry’s used to. “He needs your help, Lou, please,” he begs.

“Fine,” Louis says, dropping to his knees across from Harry and Liam. “You called an ambulance though, right?”

“Yes,” Harry answers.

“Okay.” Louis takes a deep breath, visually assessing Zayn as best as he can. “We won't be able to heal him fully, but we can probably stop the bleeding. Maybe repair some internal damage.” He looks back up, directly into Harry’s eyes. “This is going to take a lot of fucking energy, Harry. I need you to give it everything you’ve got.”

Harry nods. He silently vows to give Zayn as much energy as he can, even if he has to push himself beyond what's safe.

Louis hesitates, addressing both Harry and Liam this time. “You’ll have to stop applying pressure; any barriers between him and us will weaken the spell.” Louis turns back to Harry. “Which means this is really risky if it doesn’t work.”

“It has to work,” Harry answers quickly. He just wants to get on with it, whatever it takes.

“Okay. You ready?” Louis asks, not quite looking ready himself.

Harry nods again and Liam removes Harry’s bloodied, now unrecognizable t-shirt from Zayn’s shoulder.

Louis quickly rips the fabric of Zayn’s own shirt open. “Jesus,” he groans.

Harry turns away to control his gag reflex. Zayn’s shoulder’s been blown open, a multitude of small holes circling a giant crater. A crater that is now gushing blood. Liam covers his eyes instinctively, body shaking with sobs.

“Harry, I need you,” Louis reminds him urgently.

Harry shakes his head, trying to breathe through his mouth. A morbid instinct wants him to look down at Zayn’s shoulder again, but he forces himself to lock eyes with Louis instead. He laces their fingers together, palms down over the wound, as Louis says an incantation.

“Flesh to flesh, bone to bone; back together this wound is sewn. Sinew to sinew, vein to vein; make this body whole again.”

Harry closes his eyes and focuses with all his might, wrenching as much energy from the earth as he can muster. His hands grow warm and sweaty as the energy flows through him into Zayn. When he finally chances a peek at Zayn’s shoulder after about a minute, the smaller wounds have closed. The bleeding from the biggest one seems to be slowing, but it definitely hasn’t halted.

“It isn’t enough,” Harry says hoarsely.

“Where is this bloody ambulance?” Louis growls through gritted teeth.

“Can I–” Liam starts, faltering.

Harry turns to him in surprise, watching his tear-streaked face as he musters the courage to finish his question.

“Can I help?” Liam finally chokes out.

“Won’t hurt,” Louis pants, not even looking up to acknowledge him.

Despite Louis’s near indifference, Harry recognizes the enormity of Liam’s question. If Zayn had balked at the idea of simple kitchen magic, even after getting to know Harry over the course of a week, Liam’s fear must be tenfold.

Although Harry’s grateful for Liam’s offer, he shivers as he drops one of Lou’s hands to take one of Liam’s. _His hands did this_. Harry does his best to push the thought out of his brain and instead gives Liam extremely basic instructions, hoping that he's a fast learner. For the next thirty seconds, the three of them are wholly focused on mending Zayn and his wounds.

Harry starts to sway as the energy flowing through his hands eventually slows. Despair settles in his stomach. He can’t go on much longer and knows the others must feel the same. When his thoughts start to become incoherent, he realizes that this is his last chance to see how Zayn is doing before he loses consciousness himself.

When he chances a look at Zayn’s shoulder, he hardly dares to believe his eyes. Some of the tissue inside Zayn’s shoulder has seemingly sewn itself back together, stopping the blood and reducing the size of the injury.

Harry’s trying so hard to decide whether or not he’s hallucinating that his ears don’t register the distant sound of sirens. By the time he realizes what he’s hearing, an ambulance and two police cars are already screeching to a stop at the side of the road. The sight of them gives Harry the permission he needs to finally fall slack, dropping Liam and Louis’s hands to take hold of one of Zayn’s.

He’s so tired. He grips Zayn’s hand, ignoring the uniformed people tumbling out of their vehicles and running towards their little group. He’s dimly aware of Louis moving to sit beside him, but he ignores him too. Zayn, and the nearly imperceptible way his chest is rising and falling, are all Harry can see. A comforting silence presses into his eardrums, like the hush of a heavy snowfall at dusk.

When Louis gently pulls Zayn’s hand away, Harry turns to look at him, confused. “I need to stay with Zayn,” he mumbles.

 _I’m not going to leave you here, alone_.

By the time Harry turns back, Zayn’s already being lifted away by strange hands. He reaches out to take Zayn’s hand again, but his arm won’t quite cooperate, and Zayn’s already been carried well out of reach.

Harry’s thoughts feel jumbled. _Where’s Zayn going?_ he wonders. He shivers, feeling icy cold despite the sweat dripping down his brow and back.

He’s vaguely aware of Louis moving to kneel in front of him, blocking out his view of the commotion.

“It’s my fault,” Harry whispers. Something’s his fault, at least, although he can’t quite remember what.

“Harry,” Louis says with a pained look.

The last thing Harry hears before he relinquishes his consciousness isn’t a paramedic asking whether he needs medical help, nor is it the policeman saying they’ll all need to give statements. The last thing Harry hears, the only thing he wants to hear, is Zayn’s promise.

 _I’m not going to leave you here, alone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the cliffhanger :)
> 
> Reference image for the..."[tool](https://images.guntrader.uk/GunImages/Thumbnails/210210125259002-1-680x410-c.jpg)" in question. 😬 Don't open until the third character shows up if you don't want to spoil anything for yourself!


	8. i’ll let you decide to leave my life outside...or let me in

Zayn’s ears ring with laughter and intermittent bickering from his sisters, who surround him at the Malik’s long dining room table. His chest actually hurts with how much he loves the familiar sound.

His ears aren’t the only sense getting a treat tonight; Zayn’s stomach rumbles as a mixture of sweet and savoury aromas enter his nose. His eyes search the room for their origin, settling on the door to the kitchen just in time to see his mother nudge it open with her hip. Too many plates are balanced precariously in her arms. Doniya, forever the responsible eldest child, jumps up to help her carry them to the table. The Maliks may have a chef on-call to cook any meal they desire, but Zayn has always preferred the nights on which his mum cooks.

The best part of this particular night, though, is that Harry’s sat next to him. Zayn was worried when his parents insisted on meeting Harry over a semi-formal family meal. He looks like he belongs though, in his silk shirt, suit jacket, and jeans, all black. Zayn smiles watching Harry humour Safaa and Waliyha, laughing along with all their silly chatter.

Once Trisha and Doniya have arranged the feast, Trisha immediately starts fussing over Harry, asking him how familiar he is with Asian food and naming each dish.

Zayn stifles a laugh at the look on Harry’s face; while he’s nodding vigorously, Zayn can tell he’s quickly becoming overwhelmed by all the information.

He takes Harry’s plate and begins filling it with small helpings of everything he knows he’ll like: samosas, a spoonful of chutney, naan, and, of course, steak and potato pie.

Harry grins, as if to say, _thanks for the rescue_.

Zayn smiles back. He considers the other side of the table, wondering whether Harry would prefer chicken biryani or chicken tikka. He shrugs and decides to give him a bit of both. As he's scooping up a helping, Harry delivers an uncharacteristically sharp prod to his right shoulder blade. “Just a second,” Zayn says. He spills rice onto the table when he’s prodded again, harder this time. “Ow!” he exclaims. “Harry, what the–”

When Zayn turns, it’s not Harry at all. His father is sat beside him now, wearing that disappointed look the Malik children have worked to avoid their whole lives. Zayn shrinks back, spilling food all over the table, when he realizes that the object now pressed into his right shoulder is the nose of a shotgun. He didn’t realize his father even _had_ a shotgun.

Zayn looks around wildly, dismayed to find the same look of disappointment mirrored on all his family members’ faces. Even Safaa, the baby of the family, is glowering at him in disgust.

“How could you be so careless, Zayn?” Trisha reprimands. “I spend all afternoon cooking a meal and you thank me by making a mess of the table?”

Zayn stutters, confused. _Is this a terrible practical joke? Where did Harry go?_

“We expected so much more from you, Zayn.” Yaser shakes his head sadly. “You really could have made something of yourself.”

When Yaser pumps the slide, knocking a fresh round into the shotgun’s chamber, Zayn realizes that this is, in fact, no joke. He scrambles backwards, stumbling over his heavy wooden chair in his attempt to flee. Even without this minor delay, he wouldn’t stand a chance of outrunning his father’s practiced aim.

Yaser sighs, pulling the trigger, and Zayn has the pleasure of watching the shot rip through his shoulder at close range.

The sharp pain is enough to shock Zayn out of his nightmare.

His immediate instinct upon waking is to continue his escape. He opens his eyes and frantically attempts to force his fuzzy sight into focus. When he does, he realizes that the scene in his dining room at home was a terrible figment of his imagination.

Gone are the enticing perfumes of various spices, replaced by the pungent odours of bleach and metal. He's no longer seated at his family’s ornate mahogany table but lying on a lumpy bed, squinting against the bright light above him. He closes his eyes again; they feel so heavy.

As Zayn drifts in and out of consciousness, he realizes that he must be in hospital. Blurry memories of sirens assaulting his eardrums; indescribable pain; and Harry, Louis, and Liam’s faces bobbing over him float through his mind. _But why?_ he wonders. He lets the answer sit on the tip of his tongue, too tired to retrieve it right now.

He makes to scratch an itch on his leg and is puzzled to find out that he can't. Not only does his right arm seem to be pinned to its position on his chest, but a dull, aching pain radiates from his shoulder when he tries to move it.

His shoulder.

With a start, he remembers everything. The impact of Liam’s shot exploding into his shoulder. His inability to keep Harry safe because all he could think about was how cold he felt. The grief he experienced at never being able to see his family again, even if he _was_ a disappointment.

Zayn feels desperate for more information about what happened. He seems to be alive, thank god, but he needs to see Harry. He needs to make sure he’s alright. And what about Liam? Has he been hurt? Or arrested? If all three of them are somehow still alive, are they all being hunted right now?

Zayn turns his head to the left and then right, ready to call out for a doctor, and sucks air through his teeth when pain emanates from his shoulder. He holds his yell when his bleary eyes land on five figures sitting on a long bench in front of the window. He lays there, silent, willing his eyes to adjust to the light of the sunset streaming through the glass.

When he realizes who’s sitting at his bedside, he thinks he must be hallucinating. The chances of this particular group of individuals being in one room without killing each other are slim to none.

On the far-left side of the bench, his mum is sat next to Liam, their hands entwined tightly on his knee. She’s watching Liam sadly in that way mothers do, as if she’s waiting to catch him when he finally falls apart. Liam stares down at his trainers, morose. On the other side of the bench, Harry’s doubled over, head in his hands. His cousin Louis rubs his back, lost in thought.

Zayn’s body floods with so much relief at the sight of Harry and Liam that it’s almost enough to make him slip back under. He doesn’t let it happen, though, doesn’t want to waste another moment asleep instead of with the people he loves. Not when they came so close to losing each other.

Finally, in the middle of the bench, looking quite out of place and much perkier than the rest of the visitors, is Niall. Zayn would laugh if he wasn’t worried it would cost him a rib.

It's Niall, actually, who notices that Zayn’s awake first. “Zayn?” he says, edging forwards on the bench. “I think he’s actually awake this time.”

Trisha’s head snaps to Zayn’s face. It only takes her a millisecond to jump to her feet, startling Liam.

“Sunshine…” she coos, eyes shining with tears immediately. Trisha moves to envelop Zayn in a hug but hesitates when she sees the bandages on his shoulder and the sling holding his arm. She settles for kissing his forehead and taking one of his hands in both of her own.

Zayn instinctively relaxes at her touch, feeling at once like he’s just a little boy who’s taken ill and stayed home from school. If he focuses on his mum’s face, maybe he can pretend that all he needs is a can of soup to settle his stomach. Not a hospital bed for a shotgun wound.

“The doctors said you’d be fine once you woke up, but I couldn’t believe them until I saw it with my own eyes. I love you so, so much, sunshine.”

“I–” Zayn clears his throat. His voice sounds rusty, his mouth dry as a desert. “I love you too, mum.” He does the best he can to squeeze her hand as tears drop down her cheeks.

“I came down right away when Liam rang and said you’d gotten hurt on your...on your assignment." Trisha stumbles over her words, like she’s unsure of what the other three boys know. "Your father will be here soon. Thank goodness Simon sent Liam to check in on you. Who knows what would have happened otherwise?”

Zayn tenses, despite the way Trisha’s stroking his cheek lovingly. If she’s happy Liam came to check in on Zayn, she must not know what happened. And while she knows Harry by name, she doesn’t know his face. That’s why she hasn't tried to off him yet. Zayn's gaze travels past his mum and flicks between Liam and Harry. They both stare back at him, looking just as apprehensive.

Zayn can almost feel steam coming out of his ears as his foggy brain works overtime to put the puzzle together. Maybe Liam made it out like he was too traumatised to speak about what happened and let Trisha's imagination fill in the rest. She probably assumes that Harry tried to kill Zayn, and Liam swooped in to save the day. And for all she knows, the other lads are local friends he’s made since he arrived.

It’s all a bit too much to handle minutes after regaining consciousness. And if Zayn's this confused, he can't begin to imagine what Niall thinks is happening.

Unfortunately, Trisha notices Zayn’s eyes stray behind her. She follows them and turns towards the other boys, wiping at her cheeks. “You’ve got some really nice friends here, Zayn. They’ve been waiting with Liam and me for hours, and I just realized I don’t even know their names. Would you like to introduce me?” She smiles, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

Zayn’s not sure what else to do other than make introductions and see what happens. He’s too drowsy to come up with an escape route.

“Erm…,” he starts, looking directly at Harry rather than his mother. He so badly wants to pull him into bed, to curl up against him and fall back asleep, but he knows he can't. “This is Harry, and…” He trails off, leaving Harry to pick up the rest of the awkward introductions.

“Hello.” Harry gives a little wave, looking friendlier than Zayn would expect him to given the anxiety that must be gnawing at him. “This is our friend Niall and my cousin Louis,” he says, pointing to each of them as he says their names. “Nice to meet you.”

“Harry…?” Trisha starts, looking at Harry a bit harder than she had before.

Zayn can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

Harry, who is thankfully quicker on his feet at the moment, must see them too. “Niall?” he asks briskly, eyes never leaving Trisha’s face.

Niall turns towards Harry, looking slightly confused at his sudden shift in tone. “Mmm?”

“I could _really_ do with a cup of coffee,” Harry says pointedly. “Actually, I think everyone could. It’s been a long day.”

Louis nods vigorously, having caught on to Harry's plan to get Niall out of the room before things get ugly. “That would be lovely, Niall.”

Zayn nods, although he doubts anyone would allow him to drink anything other than water in his current state.

Liam’s the only one who doesn’t react. He’s staring at his trainers, looking like he’s about to be sick.

“Alright,” Niall shrugs, standing up. He looks bewildered but doesn’t ask questions. “Happy to help in any way I can. Would you like anything, Mrs.…?”

“Malik,” Trisha answers with a curt smile. “No, thank you.”

“Mrs. Malik,” Niall repeats with a nod. “Okay, see you lot in a bit.” Everyone in the room holds their breath until the door clicks closed behind him.

“Someone needs to explain what’s going on here,” Trisha demands. She backs away from Zayn’s bed so that she can keep all four boys well within her sight. “ _Now_.”

None of them respond, all of them looking at the floor, the ceiling, or each other as if they hadn’t heard. Zayn’s head is _pounding_.

“Harry? As in, Harry _Styles_?” Trisha demands again.

Harry jumps guiltily when he hears his name, as if he’s getting told off by his own mum.

“Did you do this to my son?”

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but Liam beats him to it. “Actually,” he clears his throat, still looking at the ground. “I did.”

The room is deafeningly silent. Zayn watches his mother’s face as she tries to process the possibility that Liam, who she’s treated like a second son all his life, did this to her own flesh and blood.

“Excuse me, Liam?” she asks, tone icier than Zayn’s ever heard it.

“I was aiming for Styles. I was trying to help, but Zayn…Zayn got in the way,” Liam explains, voice shaking.

“ _So why is he here!?_ ” Trisha cries, pointer finger extended in Harry’s direction.

Anxiety blossoms deep in Zayn’s gut as his mum’s right hand hovers near her hip, where she carries a concealed Glock under her blazer. He can’t blame her for thinking Harry’s dangerous; for all she knows, he could curse them all any second. But despite the very real danger that witches have posed to his family for generations, Zayn can’t let this continue. No one’s going to hurt Harry. Not Liam, not his mum, not Simon.

“Because he saved my life.” Everyone in the room turns to look at Zayn when he finally speaks. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for Harry and his cousin.”

“How is that possible?” Trisha cries.

“Please mum. I need you to trust me,” Zayn croaks.

There’s another long, uncomfortable silence, in which no one moves a muscle. After about a minute, Trisha shakes her head and relaxes her right hand. “Out, all of you. I need to speak to my son.”

Zayn watches the three of them trudge out single file, like little boys heading to the time out corner. His eyes linger on Harry’s back. Zayn wants to speak to him more than anything. He wishes that Harry could be at his side for this conversation, squeezing his hand whenever he falters.

Somehow, Zayn must work up the courage and energy to do this alone. He twists his hands together, which are suddenly slippery with sweat. He winces when he accidently moves his arm in a way that causes pain to radiate down from his shoulder.

Eventually, Trisha forces him to return to the matter at hand. “I’m waiting,” she reminds him.

When Zayn finally looks up at her, tears prick the corners of his eyes before he can get a single word out. He’s been thinking about this moment for weeks, but somehow has no idea where to start.

Trisha must notice his lip quivering, because her eyes soften. She sighs and seats herself gingerly on the edge of Zayn’s bed. “What happened, sunshine?”

“I’m so sorry,” Zayn starts, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes before they spill over. “I got here, and I just…I couldn’t do it, mum. I couldn’t finish the hunt. I was never really interested in hunting, but I thought that when the moment finally came, I’d find the courage to make you proud.” He sniffles, wishing he could read his mother’s expression.

Trisha says nothing, simply listens with her eyebrows furrowed.

He takes a deep breath and continues. “It was different than I’d imagined, in the moment. Harry…”

Trisha winces at Zayn’s casual use of Harry’s first name, but he presses on.

“Harry didn’t fight back; he just cried and waited for me to kill him. He’s not even dangerous like Simon thought. He’s had no training at all, didn’t even see me coming.”

An awful realization creeps over Zayn, causing his cheeks to flush in anger. Simon probably knew the whole time that Harry wasn’t dangerous. He knew and didn’t care, just wanted an excuse so that Zayn would feel like he was doing the right thing. That would explain why Simon was never concerned that Harry might overhear one of their calls in a vision.

Zayn’s brought back to the current moment by his mother’s frown.

“You have such a kind heart, Zayn. But it doesn’t matter whether he fought you or knows how to use his abilities yet. He will do someday. The purpose of a hunt is to neutralize a target in order to protect our family. Our Order.” She sighs, rubbing her hand over Zayn’s comfortingly. “You’re young, and I understand how it might be hard to remember that when your target hasn’t done anything particularly evil _yet_. But your assignment is preventative. You’ll stop him before he hurts anyone.”

Zayn’s heart sinks to hear his mother speak in the present tense, as if his hunt is still on. He wracks his exhausted brain, wondering how to make her understand. Her use of the word evil reminds him of his training, when he learned why hunters do what they do. He’d been taught over and over that their purpose was to vanquish evil, one witch at a time.

“Mum, hunters are supposed to protect against evil, right?”

Trisha nods.

“Harry’s not evil. Not only did he give me a chance after I tried to kill him, I'm sure that he saved my life. I thought I was done for, mum, I could feel it. At first it hurt really bad, but after a while I couldn't feel or think or anything anymore. Everything started slipping away and I thought that was it for me," Zayn says thickly, wiping away a fresh round of tears. He doesn't want to think about that awful feeling again, at least not so soon, but he's determined to make her get it. He pushes the anxiety back down for the time being, not yet able to process what could have been.

Trisha grips Zayn's hand tighter, her own tears spilling over again.

Zayn continues. “And Louis's the one who's trained in healing; Harry couldn't have done that without him. I’d never met him, but he saw what happened and helped Harry and Liam heal me." Zayn makes a mental note to buy Louis several rounds of drinks once they’ve been properly introduced. "How could you say he’s evil?”

Trisha looks genuinely stumped by this question, opening and closing her mouth several times before she finds a response. “You’re forgetting that witches have caused so much harm over the course of millennia. Even now, so much of the political unrest in this world is directly tied to witches. They’re too invested in stockpiling money and power, purely for their own gain. And have you forgotten how your father lost his sister? He’ll never get over that. I’m sure there are some exceptions, Zayn, but–”

“If the only two witches I’ve met are both exceptions, there are probably a _lot_ more,” Zayn interrupts. To really drive the point home, he reuses the argument Harry had tried on him that first day. “Some witches are evil, sure. Some _people_ are evil. What about the hunters who make a career out of hunting? Killing multiple witches every year, when most of us complete one or two hunts in our lives? That’s just a psychopath who’s found a socially acceptable way to be a serial killer. _That’s_ not evil to you?”

Trisha looks just as tired as Zayn feels, rubbing the frown lines on her forehead.

Zayn’s surprised when she says nothing. Knowing that she’s actually starting to hear what he’s saying, Zayn brings the conversation back around to him and Harry. He speaks in a quieter voice, much less animated than he was a moment ago.

“When I couldn’t do it, mum, I felt so alone. I was so scared of what you and dad would think; I couldn’t bear the thought of having to leave home.” He watches his own sadness reflected back in the tear sliding down his mother’s cheek. She's probably experiencing all the same fears that Zayn had been worrying about for the past several weeks. “I had no one to talk to, so I went to Harry. He’s alone, too. His family and coven disowned him when he refused to use his magic in a dishonest way. We’re friends.” He swallows a giant lump in his throat, waiting for his mum’s response.

“I hear you, my love." Trisha sighs, looking overwhelmed. "If you have a moral objection to hunting, I can't force you to be something you’re not. Hopefully we can work something out with Simon. Either way, we will support you.” She shakes her head, clearly anxious about the implications of what she’s saying, and takes his left hand in both of hers once again.

“However…” she starts again. Her tone tells Zayn that he’s not yet off the hook. “Although I’m grateful that those two boys saved your life, they shouldn’t be hanging around here. You’re not to see Harry or his cousin again, Zayn. You can’t be friends with witches; it’s asking for trouble. The Order will only tolerate so much.”

Zayn’s heart sinks. He wouldn't have guessed she'd give him an ultimatum, but now that he's heard it, it seemed all but inevitable. Even Harry had predicted it. Just that morning he’d expressed his worry that Zayn would patch things up with his family and leave him behind. At the time, Zayn had brushed it off as another expression of Harry’s ever-present fear of abandonment. Only now, when faced with the options of keeping Harry or remaining in the Order, does he realize that it had been a rational fear.

Zayn recalls the promise he made mere hours ago, and steels himself to keep it. If Harry had had the strength to stand up for what was important to him, so can Zayn. He can’t lose Harry, the boy who saved his life, who'd made Zayn feel as safe as he’d ever done in his family home.

When he speaks, he tries to ignore the way his voice shakes. “When I said friends…I should have said...more than friends.” He registers the shock in his mother’s face but presses on. “I know we haven’t known each other that long, but I really care about him. I’m not going to stop seeing him just because he’s a witch.”

Trisha rubs her face with both hands, a quiet groan escaping her lips. Zayn remains silent, chewing his lower lip raw.

When she finally removes her hands, Zayn’s bewildered to find her chuckling through a fresh round of tears. She laughs louder when she sees the look on his face.

“This is just so…you,” she says, voice hitching.

Zayn can’t help but chuckle cautiously himself. Her current expression makes him think back to his childhood, to all the times he’d gotten so hyper that Trisha had had to accept defeat. She may be ten years older now, but she looks like she might shake her head and say, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you," her favourite line from all those years ago. Maybe he’s finally broken her.

She once again adopts a serious, somewhat pained expression. “Is he good to you, Zayn? I need to know that you’ve thought this through. It’s awful I have to ask, but…I need to know that he’s worth what this might cost us.”

“He is.” While there are still so many things Zayn is uncertain of, including how he’ll get himself out of the mess he’s created, this is one he’s sure of. “He was there for me when I had no one else. And he’s kind, and loyal–”

“And handsome?” Trisha asks, eyes twinkling.

“Mum!” Zayn exclaims, entirely too drained for this kind of mortification.

Trisha laughs, enveloping him in a hug that sends a searing pain throughout his shoulder. He can't bring himself to mind.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers into his unruly silver hair.

“Proud?” he asks, even more confused.

Trisha pulls away, shaking her head. “You’ve always been better than the rest of us, sunshine. How can I blame you for doing what you think is right? Or for falling in love?”

“Mum!" Zayn exclaims again, relieved but eager to steer away from his love life. “Don’t say that in front of Harry. We’re definitely not there yet.”

“Whatever you say, darling.” Trisha kisses him on the forehead and runs her fingers through his hair, but her expression soon darkens. “Your father and I will support you no matter what, but I don’t know what that will mean for our family. We'll have to speak more about this once your father arrives. He’s on his way.”

Despite what should be a blissful moment of relief, Zayn feels a pang of fear when he realizes there’s one more piece of unfinished business. “Will you and dad be able to keep Harry safe?”

“Of course,” Trisha responds, looking somewhat distracted. Presumably, she now has a lot on her mind. “You and Liam were the only ones who were a danger to him in the first place.”

“Well, not exactly," Zayn explains. "Simon’s really after him. Liam was only going to hunt Harry and give me the credit for it, but Simon actually ordered him to hunt both of us because I was ‘disloyal.’” He makes air quotes with his good hand.

“WHAT?” Trisha erupts, sitting straight up. “He said _WHAT_?”

“He also said that if Liam didn’t do as he was told, he’d send someone to hunt all three of us. Simon claimed his mum and dad wouldn’t want him back anyway. So…I guess we’re all still in danger,” Zayn adds quickly.

“I’ve been telling your father for years that that man has gone absolutely mad. This is the final straw.” Trisha stands to retrieve her purse, which she left on the bench by the window. Once it’s on her arm, she returns to envelope Zayn in another painful hug. “As _if_ Karen and Geoff would ever want to see you hurt,” she mutters angrily.

He hugs her back tightly with his good arm, inhaling the familiar scent of perfume at the back of her neck.

She pulls away, running her fingers through his hair once more. “I need to ring your father again. I love you so much, sweetheart.”

“Love you too, mum,” Zayn smiles. Just before she’s out the door, he timidly calls after her. “Can you send my friends back in please?”

“Of course, darling.”

\--

Harry rubs his swollen, red eyes for the hundredth time today and gladly takes one of the coffees Niall offers him. He’s wearing layer upon layer of exhaustion. First, there's the emotional trauma from Zayn nearly bleeding out in his arms. Then, there's the physical fatigue from the spell. Finally, the second he was done feeding the police their bullshit cover story, some serious brain fog took over.

Harry, Liam, and Louis were examined by the remaining paramedics after Zayn had been whisked away. Once they'd been found physically healthy, barring the need for a serious nap, they were questioned by the police right there in the field.

For once in his life, Harry was able to put his divination skills to good use. He kept pausing dramatically during questioning, pretending he was too woozy to talk. In reality, he was divining the story Liam was making up for another officer just out of earshot. According to Liam, he’d come to visit Zayn on holiday. He was showing off his new registered and completely legal hunting shotgun when he pulled the trigger, not realizing it was loaded. And when Liam referenced hunting, he was referring to birds. Obviously.

Harry’s still shocked that he managed to focus his visions enough to listen to Liam's story, given the amount of magical energy he’d spent on healing Zayn. The urgency of the situation must have overridden his body’s desperate desire to faint again. Thankfully, the police seemed to buy Liam and Harry’s matching stories. All Louis had to do was tell the truth – that he’d come to visit his cousin and happened upon an accident. He genuinely had no idea what he’d walked into until Harry and Liam filled him in later.

Harry takes a sip of his coffee, breathing in the rich smell. He's glad that the air in the corridor feels less tense than it had in Zayn’s hospital room, now that there’s proof that he’ll be okay. At least, the tension’s dissipated among Harry, Louis, and Niall. Liam, on the other hand, is pacing alone down the corridor.

Harry almost wants to join him. Inwardly, he’s a nervous wreck trying to imagine Zayn and Trisha’s conversation on the other side of the wall. Instead, he redoes his greasy bun for probably the tenth time this afternoon and forces himself to engage with the others. That way, he can’t run through every awful scenario his shitty brain comes up with.

“I still can’t believe you happened upon that scene, Louis,” Harry says. “I didn’t expect you to visit again for a while.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis shrugs, scuffing his shoe on the tile. “I felt bad that I was in and out so fast the other week. You looked so disappointed when I left. Figured I’d come back from Greece a couple days early and drop by on my way back home.”

“But don’t you live in Doncaster?” Niall asks. “That’s the total opposite direction!”

“True, but Heathrow’s in this general corner of the country,” Louis answers shiftily.

It's obvious that Louis's trying to conceal the fact that he had to sneak around to visit, as Niall still doesn’t know the extent of Harry’s “independence” from his family. Niall had gotten the same bollocks story as the police, as Harry hadn’t felt up to explaining or performing the obligatory magic trick non-witches always demand as proof.

“Thanks again for coming, Niall,” Harry says, steering the conversation in a safer direction. “You really didn’t have to; I know I’m just your co-worker. I only rang to give you a heads up in case I had to call out tomorrow.”

Niall looks affronted. “We’re not just co-workers, Harry! I mean, if that’s how _you_ feel, that’s fine.” He shrugs. “But I consider you to be a good friend. When you told me what happened, I thought you might need one yourself.”

Harry smiles shyly, cheeks blazing in response to such outspoken affection. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I do think of you as a good friend. My only friend from around here, really.”

Niall chuckles and pulls Harry in for a quick hug, which makes Harry’s cheeks burn even brighter. Despite all the awful shit going on, despite his actual family wanting nothing to do with him, he feels so lucky to have these boys in his life.

The little group falls silent. It would give Harry a chance to look around the corridor, if there was anything to look at. The walls are bare, save for room numbers and the blinding fluorescent lights that are giving him a headache. He hopes they can all get out of here soon. He’d also like to know, sooner rather than later, whether they’ll be able to get out of here together, or whether Zayn’s mum will have him removed by force.

Finding nothing of interest to look at, Harry can’t help but let his gaze drift back to Liam, who's still pacing further down the corridor.

Louis had forced Liam and Harry to wash up, change clothes, and eat something after being questioned so that they didn't turn up here looking like crazed axe murderers. In that sense, Liam looks alright, although Harry's still irritated that he had to lend Liam an old t-shirt and pair of joggers.

Emotionally, Liam looks a right mess. He’s tense and jittery, running his hands through his hair compulsively. Harry guesses that the coffee he’s now drinking isn’t helping; caffeine is probably the last thing he needs.

Harry isn’t quite sure what to feel about him. On the one hand, he almost killed Zayn. On the other, he’s the reason Zayn’s still alive. Without Liam's final push of magical energy at the end, he and Louis wouldn’t have pulled it off. And he _knows_ that hurting Zayn was a genuine accident on Liam’s part. But…it was no accident that he shot with the intent to kill Harry. The more he thinks about it, the more his brain hurts.

Harry notices out of the corner of his eye that Louis is watching him watch Liam. Louis nods, as if he can read Harry’s mind. Harry sighs, supposing he _should_ go set things straight with Liam, no matter how awkward it is. He straightens his shoulders and makes his way past the other boys.

Liam, lost in thought while he paces the corridor, doesn’t notice Harry until he clears his throat. Liam looks confused, and a bit nervous, when he looks up to find Harry standing before him.

“I just wanted to say, erm…,” Harry clears his throat again, “thank you.”

“Thank you?” Liam repeats, incredulous. “For what? I deserve to be locked up!”

Harry resists the urge to agree. “Zayn would have died if you didn’t help. And, judging by his reaction the first time I did magic in front of him, you didn’t make that decision lightly.”

When Liam nods, looking surprised that he understands, Harry feels good. As much as he hates Liam right now, he knows he’s doing the right thing.

“I love Zayn like a brother. He _is_ my brother.” Liam bites his lip as his eyes go a bit glassy. “I’m genuinely sorry. I hope you can believe me when I say I only meant to protect him.”

When his voice cracks, the anger in Harry’s chest dissipates slightly. He knows Liam means it.

“I should say thank you, too,” Liam continues. “You didn’t have to cover for me with the police.”

“Yeah, well. It would have been a headache for Zayn and me too if I tried to tell the truth,” Harry says nonchalantly. He doesn't want Liam to think he lied solely for his benefit.

“Either way,” Liam shrugs. “I want to say sorry too, of course. I’m actually glad I missed you; you seem alright.”

Harry wills himself not to roll his eyes. _You regret attempting to murder me. How nice._

Liam continues, apparently oblivious to Harry’s internal struggle. “Before today, I didn’t think there was any way he’d willingly spend time with a witch. But there he was, holding your hand and defending you. I obviously acted too quickly, but I really thought you’d hurt him or bewitched him. When I saw how you reacted when he got hurt…” Liam drops his eyes to the floor. “I realized how badly I misjudged the situation.”

Harry nods. As much as he would love to pretend that he doesn’t understand Liam’s actions, he does…sort of. Liam jumped to conclusions unfairly, but Harry can appreciate the fact that he loves Zayn enough to protect him at any cost. “We are a bit of an odd couple. But I care about Zayn too. A lot.”

Now it’s Liam’s turn to nod. “I see that now. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me, but…truce?” He extends his right hand.

The petty part of Harry wants to turn around and leave Liam hanging. But the mature part of him, the side that compelled him to initiate this conversation in the first place, encourages him to be the bigger man.

“Truce,” Harry says, shaking Liam’s hand with a much stronger grip than he normally uses.

“Cheers, Harry.”

It’s strange to hear his first name come out of Liam’s mouth so casually, as if they weren’t sworn enemies hours ago. He doesn’t have much more time to think about it, however, once he hears Zayn’s door open behind him.

Harry whips around, anxious to know the outcome of Zayn’s conversation with his mum. When she exits the room and Harry can see the unconcealed rage on her face, his stomach drops. She makes a beeline right for him, and Harry realizes how lucky it is that they’re in a public place. If they weren’t, it would probably be his turn to get wheeled in on a stretcher. If he made it to hospital at all, that is.

Louis and Niall’s eyes follow her curiously as she swishes past them without a second glance. Louis takes a couple tentative steps in Harry’s direction, clearly nervous for his safety.

Harry recoils when Zayn’s mum finally stops in front of him, expecting a verbal assault at the very least. To his amazement, her face softens.

“I’m sorry I shouted earlier, darling.”

“It’s–erm–that’s okay, Mrs. Malik,” Harry stammers, nonplussed. He’s so shocked that he can’t help but take a physical step back.

Louis is having the same reaction; he’s standing down the corridor, mouth agape.

“Please, call me Trisha. Zayn told me about the couple weeks you’ve had together, and it’s given me a lot to think about. Once his father gets here, I think the four of us should sit down and have a conversation.”

Harry nods dumbly, unable to form even a simple sentence.

“Anyway, he’s asked me to send you all back in.” Trisha motions to the entire group before turning back to address Harry. “But I think you should speak to him first. He needs you.”

Before Harry even has time to process what she’s saying, she folds him into a tight hug. Harry just stands there, frozen; his brain isn’t working fast enough to get himself to return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of my son,” Trisha says, with a smile that reaches her eyes. She pulls away and gives Harry’s shoulders a squeeze. “All of you,” she says, briefly making eye contact with Niall and Louis as well.

She turns her focus to Liam when she notices that he’s avoiding eye contact. “That technically includes you too, Liam, because I know you had good intentions,” she says, in a slightly sharper tone. “But I _will_ be speaking to your mother. It was irresponsible for you to try to manage this on your own without speaking to one of us first, regardless of whatever nonsense Simon may have fed you.”

Liam’s eyes remain downcast. He nods quickly, looking like a chastised little boy.

As suddenly as she appeared, Trisha is off again, sweeping down the hallway with her mobile to her ear. “Yaser?” they hear her ask as the lift’s doors close behind her.

Harry, Louis, and Liam all stand rooted to the floor in shock.

Niall just looks confused. “What in the hell was that all about?” he asks, looking to Harry.

Harry doesn't answer, not sure where he'd even start.

Louis looks to Harry, jabbing his thumb towards Zayn’s door. “Well, you heard the woman!” He then turns to back to the other boys, rubbing his hands together in excitement. “Niall, Liam and I have a story to tell you. Let’s find a place to sit down…”

Niall looks to Harry for more direction, confused.

Harry nods, indicating that Niall should follow Louis. He supposes since everything’s calmed down a bit, it’s as good a time as any to fully induct Niall into their little group. However, he can’t help but be disappointed that he won’t get to see Niall’s reaction when he finds out that Harry’s baking _is_ magic.

As the other boys initiate their search for a private place to sit, Harry finally recovers from his shock. He closes the distance to Zayn’s door in no time.

Zayn’s waiting for him, bed already moved into the upright position, when Harry slips through. He looks a little more awake now, albeit tired.

Despite Harry's excitement to be near Zayn again, he enters slowly, quietly shutting the door behind him. They smile at each other for a moment, almost shyly, before Harry comes to sit on Zayn’s bed. He does so carefully, not wanting to jostle Zayn’s shoulder.

“Hi,” Harry says.

“Hi,” Zayn answers, eyes crinkling in the way they always do when he smiles. The happiness radiating from his expression is at odds with the rest of his appearance. He's still a little too pale. He's also wearing the standard-issue hospital gown that had replaced his bloody clothes, which is just as unsettling in a different way.

Harry reaches out to lace his fingers through Zayn’s. “Your mum took the news well, I gather?”

“Yeah, she did. Thankfully, she was angrier with Simon than with me or Liam. And she said that she and dad will make sure we’re all safe. How’d you know?”

“When she first came out of your room, I thought she was going to kill me from the look on her face,” Harry jokes. “But she must have been thinking about Simon. When she saw me, she actually came over and…hugged me? And she said we all need to talk once your dad gets here.”

“Oh…wow,” Zayn says, looking almost more surprised than Harry feels.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Harry asks, squeezing Zayn’s fingers. “I knew they’d still accept you.”

“Mmm. I suppose you did,” Zayn admits.

They fall silent, and Harry notices how _small_ Zayn looks in this uncomfortable-looking bed. He wishes he could scoop him up in his arms or do something, anything, to make him feel cosier.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks.

Zayn winces. “It really fucking hurts, honestly.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry sighs, the weight of the guilt on his shoulders causing him to deflate.

Zayn snorts. “What are _you_ sorry for? You saved me.”

“It was my fault, really,” Harry says, playing with his rings so that he has something to look at other than Zayn’s face. “It should have been me, but I pulled you right into the line of fire.”

When Zayn provides no response, Harry looks up to see him making the same pained expression he’d done in the cave that morning.

“Harry…this,” Zayn starts, motioning towards his shoulder,” has nothing to do with you. You didn’t pull the trigger.”

Harry nods, a lump building in his throat. Zayn is probably right, but that doesn’t mean he can shake the guilt so easily. If Harry hadn’t kicked off, it's possible that Zayn could have talked Liam down altogether.

Zayn slides to the right gingerly and pats the mattress next to him, signalling for Harry to crawl into bed.

He curls into the small space as carefully as he can. He rests one long leg over Zayn’s and nestles his face into the crook of his neck, smiling to himself when Zayn giggles, tickled by his breath.

Harry holds Zayn, wishing he could say something comforting, but the weight of the day’s events are crushing him. The harder he tries to think of something, the bigger the lump in his throat grows. Crying would be selfish, though. He’s not the one who almost died and had to have a blood transfusion and stitches.

“What are you thinking?” Zayn asks.

Harry gives a half-hearted shrug but remains silent. He’s glad that Zayn can’t see the tears welling in his eyes.

At first, he thinks Zayn’s going to leave it. Zayn doesn’t say anything for a while, just traces his fingertips over the hand Harry’s resting in his lap. He rubs his fingers over Harry’s rings before tracing the outside of each fingernail.

“What is it you need when your nails turn pink?" Zayn asks. "I’ve seen this colour a couple times now.”

Harry still wants to reassure Zayn and save his own feelings for later, but he can feel that the exhaustion gnawing at his brain is making a different decision for him. He’s had to be strong all day; now that it’s just him and Zayn, he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it together. He brings his nails closer to his face and examines the baby pink colour that’s exposed his fragile emotional state. “Comfort?” he finally answers, voice cracking. To his dismay, he feels tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. He furiously wipes them away, face burning.

“Oh, Harry, Zayn sighs softly, lacing their fingers together once again. “It’s okay to cry. It’s been an awful day.”

And cry Harry does. His body heaves with the sobs he’s too tired to hold in anymore. He squeezes Zayn’s hand hard, perhaps harder than he should, as his tears soak the hospital gown. As he babbles about how scared he was that Zayn would die, about how Zayn had promised he wasn't going to leave him alone, Zayn trembles beneath him. They grip each other, both crying, the only people in the world who understand what the other’s been through.

Normally, Harry would never let another person see him act like a needy, lonely child. It's something he takes great pains to bury, lest another person he cares about grow tired of him. But somehow, Zayn always makes Harry feel more protected than exposed. He's desperate to keep Zayn close, doesn't want to let him out of his grasp ever again. It's something he's been thinking about all day, and it's tumbling out of his mouth before he has time to think twice. “If you'd died, I'd never get the chance to ask you to be my boyfriend,” he sobs.

Zayn stiffens under him, and Harry immediately regrets having said it. “Fuck,” he moans. “That was stupid; I’m sorry. Not the right time or place.” The literal last thing Zayn needs right now is to have an awkward "what are we" conversation. Harry wipes his eyes on his t-shirt, determined to regain some semblance of control.

When Zayn responds, his voice is thick from his own tears. “It’s not stupid. I told my mum that we were more than friends and that I wouldn't stop seeing you just because the Council didn't approve. So…I’d be a little upset if you _didn’t_ want to be my boyfriend.” He chuckles, wiping his nose on the front of his gown.

It's Harry’s turn to freeze. Zayn's wanted to get home to his family since the second he got here. He finally got the chance to be welcomed back with open arms, and he jeopardized it...for Harry?

He leans away slightly so that he can see Zayn’s face. His eyes, ringed with dark circles, are now just as red as Harry’s. However, the colour is starting to return to his face. And he’s smiling.

“You told her _what_?” Harry asks.

Zayn just laughs, knowing that Harry heard him properly the first time.

 _He actually kept his promise,_ Harry marvels. Each time he thinks he’s used up all his tears, he realizes he could still fill a whole swimming pool.

Zayn sniffles, making an effort to stop his crying. “Anyway, can I finally have a kiss now?” he asks shyly.

Harry reaches out to wipe a leftover tear off Zayn’s check with his thumb. “You don’t want me to kiss you, I’m disgusting,” he laughs, rubbing his own eyes again.

“Hey, I’m in hospital; that means I get whatever I want. And my first official request as your boyfriend is a kiss,” Zayn says, popping one eyebrow cheekily.

Harry rolls his eyes, but the word "boyfriend" knocks around the inside of his head forcefully.

The angle in which Harry’s curled up doesn’t give him easy access to Zayn’s face. He sits up and swings one leg over Zayn’s lap until he’s straddling him, praying that Trisha doesn’t come back any time soon. He presses his lips to Zayn’s gingerly, threading his fingers through the wispy hairs at the back of his neck. He immediately forgets his self-consciousness; all he can think about is how they almost never got to do this again.

He's careful not to melt into Zayn the way he wants to, making sure that he doesn't put any weight on his torso. He wishes he could whisk Zayn away from this sterile, strange place and take him home. He can picture it now: Zayn, his boyfriend, snuggled up under Harry’s covers. Zayn, his _boyfriend_ , watching movies as Harry waits on him hand and foot and kisses him whenever he wants….

“Ewwww!”

Harry nearly falls out of the bed as Louis’s disgusted groan pierces the room.

“Have some respect, Harry,” Louis says from the doorway, typical shit-eating grin spread wide across his face. “I’m sure the man doesn’t want your tongue down his throat while he’s in hospital.”

Niall and Liam follow behind him, laughing.

“He literally asked for it!” Harry grumbles indignantly, swinging his leg back over Zayn and settling into a less compromising position. Zayn’s trying not to laugh, but Harry can tell it’s because he’s trying not to hurt himself, not because he’s attempting to spare Harry any embarrassment. Harry crosses his arms and glares at all four of them, heat rising in his face.

“You’ve been hogging him long enough anyway,” Liam adds. Despite his easy tone, Liam keeps his distance, body language a little uncertain.

Louis, however, strides right over to Zayn, extending his right hand for a shake. He switches to his left when he remembers that Zayn’s right side is compromised.

“Louis. Thought I should formally introduce myself, seeing as I’ve had your blood all over me.”

Zayn laughs, taking Louis’s left hand for an awkward shake. “Thank you. I owe you my life. Like, literally.”

Louis gives Zayn a small nod, indicating that he appreciates the seriousness of Zayn’s thanks despite his playful next words. “No worries, mate. I’d do anything for a future in-law.” He pauses, pretending to look deep in thought. “Is cousin-in-law a term people use?”

Wide-eyed, Harry reaches out to smack Louis across the head. He’s glad that he can feel Zayn shaking with silent laughter next to him. Even still, he’s mortified.

“Lou, I am _never_ telling you anything about my personal life ever again,” he grumbles, recrossing his arms.

Louis shrugs, rubbing the spot Harry slapped, as he crosses to sit on the bench by the window. “It was worth it.”

Niall pats Zayn’s ankle as he passes the bed to sit next to Louis. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, man.”

A tension sets in as everyone realizes that Liam is still hovering near the door, far away from the rest of the group. He shifts his weight awkwardly and clears his throat. Harry imagines that Liam would prefer to speak to Zayn in privacy. But…Harry would rather die than leave Zayn alone in a room with Liam right now, even if his rational mind knows that Liam is no longer a danger.

Liam glances at Harry nervously as he approaches Zayn, as if he can tell exactly what he’s thinking. Harry meets Liam’s gaze, arms still crossed, but doesn’t say anything.

Liam seems to take that as permission to proceed. “Zayn…” he starts, sorrow evident on his face.

Everyone in the room holds their breath.

“Don’t.” Zayn shakes his head.

“But–”

“Seriously,” Zayn interrupts again. “You don’t have to explain. I know you were trying to do the right thing.”

Harry clenches his fists. It takes all of his remaining energy to stop himself from arguing. The idea of Zayn immediately forgiving the person who almost killed him – and who _wanted_ to kill Harry – is absurd. Harry hadn’t had much time to imagine what this interaction would look like, but he assumed that it would involve shouting. Or at least some degree of coldness. If he were in Zayn’s position, he would _never_ forgive Liam.

“But,” Zayn continues, in a sterner tone this time, “you have to promise me you won’t try to hurt Harry, or any other witch, ever again.”

The corner of Harry's mouth twitches up with a small ounce of satisfaction when he hears Zayn defend him.

Liam nods solemnly. “I’ve already decided that I’m done hunting. I’m getting rid of that gun as soon as I go home.”

“Good. My parents are going to speak to Simon, so we shouldn’t have to worry about protecting ourselves anyway.”

Liam nods again and reaches out for another left-handed shake.

Harry desperately wants to slap his hand away, but he contains himself.

Liam holds onto Zayn’s hand a little longer than necessary, letting out a long, shaky breath. “I’m just so glad you’ll be alright. Never mind the fact that you’re even speaking to me. I thought for sure you’d never want to see me again.”

“You’re my brother, Liam,” Zayn says simply, echoing Liam’s earlier words.

Harry resists the urge to turn to Louis and Niall and roll his eyes.

It’s obvious that neither Zayn nor Liam know where to go after this. They remain still, looking at each other silently. Harry can’t stand it; he desperately needs something to break the tension.

Niall clears his throat, obviously feeling the same way. “So, you lot mean to tell me that _you_ ,” Niall motions to Louis and Harry, “are witches. Actual magical beings. And _you_ ,” he says, now motioning to Liam and Zayn, “are born into families whose sole purpose is to maintain population control on these idiots so that they can’t get into too much trouble?”

“It’s not our _sole_ purpose,” Zayn argues, indignant. “We have regular lives, just like anyone else.”

“And we’re not idiots!” Harry says, mock-offended.

Niall ignores him, addressing Zayn instead. “Okay, fine. But you’re not denying that it is _a_ purpose.” He nods to himself, attempting to process this bizarre new information. “How do I know you’re not all full of shit?” Niall asks, turning to Harry. “Prove it.”

Harry responds with an over-exaggerated sigh. He knew this would happen. He decides to utilize his favourite party trick. The magic is indisputable, but it won't require too much energy.

“They told you I’m a diviner, right?” he asks.

Niall nods.

“Take out your mobile.” Harry waits briefly for Niall to follow his instruction. “In a moment, you’re going to shuffle your music. But before you do, I’m going to tell you what song will play.”

Niall looks extremely sceptical as Harry closes his eyes to concentrate.

After a moment, Harry snorts with laughter. “Shuffle twice. Pick another one.”

“What? Why?” Niall asks, confused. His finger hovers over the shuffle icon.

“Trust me, you don’t want to play that one,” Harry says, giggling.

Louis narrows his eyes, looking back and forth between Harry and Niall. “Play it! I want to know what it is.” Liam and Zayn follow the interaction too, curious.

Niall, who’s always down for a laugh, even if it’s at his own expense, shrugs and taps shuffle. The aggressive, unmistakable intro of Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” blares from his speakers.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Niall groans as Harry stares him dead in the eye and says, “Let’s go girls,” right on beat.

Zayn’s eyes grow wide and Liam covers his mouth with his hand, undoubtedly covering a smirk; neither of them knows Niall well enough to laugh at him outright. Louis, on the other hand, is doubled over, howling.

“It’s an objectively good song,” Niall says loudly, raising his voice over the music and Harry singing along.

“I’m not at all disagreeing! I was just trying to save you from getting bullied by this one,” Harry says, nodding towards Louis.

“I’m _never_ going to let you forget this,” Louis says weakly, wiping tears off his cheeks.

Niall rolls his eyes and pauses the music. “Go again, Harry. You never actually said what the song was going to be. You know me well enough to guess that something embarrassing might play.”

“Okay…” Harry closes his eyes once more, relieved to hear the intro of a decidedly more neutral song. “Hotel California.”

Niall narrows his eyes. His suspicious look morphs into glee when he taps shuffle and hears that Harry was right. “That’s sick, Harry,” he says excitedly, eyes shining. “One more?”

“ _One_ more.” Harry rolls his eyes, pretending that he isn’t secretly loving the attention. He closes his eyes one final time and recognizes a familiar staccato string arrangement. “Viva La Vida.”

Niall laughs in amazement as Harry happily hums along to the Coldplay song.

“You two have some _shit_ taste in music,” says Zayn, looking disgusted.

Harry makes to smack him playfully but stops short, remembering his injury. “Rude! You’re lucky you’re already in pain.” He settles for a gentle kiss on the cheek instead.

When Louis makes a gagging noise behind him, Harry laughs and makes a show of kissing Zayn full on the lips.


	9. maybe one day you’ll call me and tell me that you’re sorry too

“He really has some fucking _nerve_ ,” Harry says in the direction of the hospital room’s television, an incredulous look on his face.

Zayn chuckles to himself, cautious not to reignite the sharp pain in his chest. He feels so much more relaxed to have Harry at his side again.

Zayn had been so grateful to see everyone last night, but hospital staff eventually asked them all to leave so that he could rest. His solo overnight stay was anything but relaxing, though. Since last night, he'd dealt with nurses interrupting his sleep, shitty hospital food, and being questioning by the police. He'd had to reassure them that yes, it was an accidental injury and no, he did not feel that he was in danger. He'd counted down the seconds until Harry and his mum were let back in this morning.

It's only Zayn and Harry now, though, since Trisha left to retrieve Yaser from the airport. Harry'd fussed around trying to make Zayn feel as comfortable as possible, ordering him lunch and flipping through channels until he found something interesting. Now they sit, snuggled next to each other on the little bed, watching the television hung from the ceiling.

Harry doesn’t even notice Zayn chuckling at his outburst, so engrossed he is in the _Love Island_ rerun.

Zayn never cared much for the show when his sisters put it on at home, and he still doesn’t now. However, watching Harry nearly jump to his feet in excitement, all the while providing colour commentary as if the contestants can hear him, is a show worth watching.

“She’s better off,” Harry says, reclining back and crossing his arms. “I’ll be so upset if she goes back to him after that.”

Zayn snorts.

“You don’t think so?” Harry demands, turning to face him.

Zayn stops himself from shrugging his shoulders just in time, having learned a lesson earlier. “No….I mean, sure.” He makes a sheepish expression when Harry raises one eyebrow. “I’m not really paying much attention, if I’m honest.”

“We can change it if you don’t like it,” Harry says, suddenly looking worried. “I just thought…something light-hearted–”

“No, no, it’s perfect,” Zayn says, with a reassuring squeeze to Harry’s thigh. “I'm having fun watching _you_ watch it more than anything. I’m too tired to really follow along.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry says, settling back against the pillows. The tension leaves his shoulders as a familiar blush creeps up his cheeks.

Zayn supposes he should make _some_ effort to engage, though. “You don’t think there’s any way he could make it up to her?” he says, nodding towards the TV.

Harry shakes his head, still watching the woman in question rehash the argument with her friends. He hesitates, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I don’t think some things should be forgiven.”

Now it’s Zayn’s turn to raise an eyebrow. If he didn’t know Harry well enough, he might have missed the slight edge to his voice, which suggests he’s not purely talking about _Love Island_. “And what sorts of things fall into the unforgivable category for you?” Zayn asks casually, returning his own gaze to the telly.

“Disloyalty,” Harry says.

“You mean Liam, right?”

Harry startles; he must not have realized that the true subject on his mind was obvious. He turns to Zayn, a pleading look in his eyes. “I just don’t see how you could forgive him so easily, without even a proper apology!”

“I don’t need to hear the words to know he’ll be sorry for the rest of his life. I could see it on his face.” Zayn can understand why Harry would be upset or even scared, but he knows he can trust Liam. He doesn’t have a disingenuous bone in his body; if Liam says he’s done hunting, he’s done hunting.

“He wanted me dead, Zayn.”

Zayn’s stomach twists seeing the hurt in Harry’s eyes. He knows Harry would be happy if he never spoke to Liam again, and some people would consider that the right thing to do. It would probably be simpler. But Zayn knows he can’t do that, not having been in the same headspace as Liam only a matter of weeks ago. “So did I. And you forgave me.”

The truth of this response takes Harry off-guard. For a couple moments, the only sound in the room is someone crying dramatically on the screen. “I suppose that’s true,” Harry admits.

“Picture how I felt, but add a tonne more pressure, because Liam always excels at everything he does. Then, on top of all that, add Simon threatening his life.”

Harry nods, which signals that he’s at least open to listen.

“I understand if you never want to see or even hear about Liam again," Zayn continues. "I can honour that. But, to me, this _is_ my version of loyalty: forgiving someone who knows they’ve done wrong.”

“Okay.” Harry lets out a deep breath, still looking a little unconvinced. “I suppose I can understand that. Just don’t expect us to be best friends anytime soon.”

Zayn takes Harry’s face in one hand, pained to think that he could make Harry feel unimportant or uncared for. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

Harry leans into Zayn’s hand, closing his eyes, and nods.

He looks so sweet snuggled against Zayn’s side, hair pulled back into a messy bun and a rare glimpse of unguarded emotion on his face. Sweet, but also fragile. Zayn hopes that he'll understand in time.

He hisses in pain when a knock at the door causes him to jump. He turns to see Trisha wave through the door’s little window before she steps inside, Yaser now in tow.

Zayn apprehension at seeing his father barely lasts a second. Yaser crosses to him without hesitation, placing a large, comforting hand on his good shoulder.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here; I was out of the country for work. I’m so glad you’re alright,” Yaser says, bending to kiss the top of Zayn’s head. “And you must be Harry?” He straightens up, extending a hand.

Zayn suppresses a smile at the almost imperceptible way Harry shrinks when Yaser’s gaze falls on him. His father is the kindest man he knows, but that doesn’t make his large figure any less intimidating. Especially not in the jet-black suit he’s still wearing from work.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry says, voice a little squeakier than normal despite Yaser’s warm expression.

Trisha ruffles Zayn’s hair affectionately, looking up at the television when the motion catches her eye. “Oh, is this that _Island Love_ thing your sisters are always watching? I love this show!”

Zayn laughs and mutes the sound as Yaser groans dramatically. It's been a Malik family tradition to watch something together in the evenings ever since Zayn can remember. In recent months, there had been many squabbles over whether the night’s programming would be football or _Love Island_.

“Fine,” Trisha says with mock offense. “You two can go to the pub to watch your football. I’ll invite Harry round to watch with me and the girls.”

Zayn’s heart swells in his chest when he sees the way Harry beams at his mother’s off-hand comment.

Trisha must notice too, as she transforms the joke into an actual invitation. “Seriously, love, let us know when you can come for tea once we have this mess sorted. From what Zayn’s told me, we have a lot to learn from you. And I’m always looking for an excuse to cook a feast.” She winks.

Harry seems to struggle around a lump in his throat for the briefest of seconds before smoothing his expression into a warm smile. “I would love that. Thank you.”

Yaser clears his throat importantly. “Speaking of getting this mess sorted….” He pauses, waiting for the rest of the eyes in the room to swivel back to him. “I spent the length of my travel speaking to friends who are in positions of power in our Order. They were all shocked to hear what transpired.”

Trisha nods. “Obviously, the rest of the Council had no idea what Simon was doing when he gave you your assignment, let alone what he planned to do if it wasn’t completed. None of us would have gone for it.”

“What’s more,” Yaser continues, shaking his head as if he can’t believe what he’s saying, “many confided in me that they’ve considered leaving the Order recently. Our children don’t want to hunt anymore.”

“Really?” Zayn asks incredulously. He always knew that he couldn’t be the only one to struggle with the Order's traditional values, but he assumed that any kindred souls would be few and far between. It’s mad to think that people close to the Maliks had been feeling the same way. They’d all been suffering in silence.

“Really,” Yaser nods. “No one's been brave enough to say anything, because any time Simon senses weakness, he raises the stakes. You want to stop hunting? He’ll cut you off from your family. He must know that he's losing control if he's bumping the punishment up to murder.”

Trisha shakes her head. “It never used to be like this. People were driven to hunt by honour and a desire to keep their community safe, not by personal vendettas or peer pressure.”

“I think that if this Council is going to survive, it will have to make major changes,” Yaser adds. “Half the leadership is on standby right now, waiting to defect in support of us if we give the command. Hearing that Simon ordered the deaths of two of our own – two of our _children_ – was the final straw for many.”

Trisha clasps her hand to her heart, looking as shocked as Zayn feels. “But Yaser…we wouldn’t do that, would we? Leave the Council entirely?”

Yaser sighs, unable to stop himself from glancing at Harry before returning to Trisha. “I don’t know. I’m not sure that I can justify it. We do have a…purpose." He trails off lamely.

Zayn’s temper flares. He’s tired of explaining this, but he’ll be damned if he lets his father argue for the murder of witches right in front of Harry. “It’s barbaric, Dad! I know your initiation hunts were in a different time, but it’s the twenty-first century now!”

“I know, Zayn. But that doesn’t change the fact that many witches–” again, Yaser’s gaze flicks to Harry for the briefest of seconds, “–use their magic for evil.”

Zayn feels Harry squirm slightly beside him. He can’t even let his father finish before protesting again. “That doesn’t justify _murder_. If half the Council is ready to walk out anyway, I say let’s do it!”

“If you would let me finish…” Yaser says, holding up one palm and cocking an eyebrow.

Zayn huffs, but remains quiet. He glances at Harry, still squished next to him in the cramped hospital bed, and catches a look he can’t quite place. Maybe relief or pleasant surprise? Whatever it is, Harry lets him know that he appreciates Zayn speaking up when he squeezes his palm three times in quick succession.

“Some of our friends brought forth the idea of an agreement,” Yaser continues. “A treaty, of sorts, between hunters and witches. Maybe there are some terms we could agree to. It might be a long shot, asking them to relinquish some of their freedom. But I don’t know how else to maintain reasonable control over the use of magic without forcing our children to commit violence.”

After hearing his father’s full thought, Zayn feels slight remorse for arguing. He saves his apology, however, because he’s not sure this plan is realistic. He looks from Harry to Yaser, hesitant. “I’m sure witches would appreciate not being hunted, but would the Coven go for that? Restrictions on the use of magic, I mean?”

“It would certainly be unprecedented, so I was hoping Harry could help us answer that question." Yaser shifts his attention towards Harry. “If I remember correctly, your parents are well-connected. Can you speak to them and get an idea of what the response might be?”

Zayn and Trisha flinch simultaneously. Clearly she hadn’t shared this detail about Harry, insignificant as it may have seemed in the grand scheme of things.

Harry shifts at Zayn’s side. “I…erm…I don’t speak to my parents. I’m not even technically part of the Coven anymore.”

Yaser’s eyes widen as he realizes his mistake. “I–I’m so sorry,” he stutters. “I shouldn’t have assumed….I’m sure I can find a contact….”

“It’s fine,” Harry says flatly. “I just can’t be of much help, that’s all.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the room; no one’s quite sure where to look.

Trisha breaks it by perching on the miniscule amount of free space next to Harry, placing her hand on his shin in a motherly fashion. “Nevermind all this talk about agreements and treaties. Are you going to tell your family what’s been going on?”

Harry shakes his head, staring at his knees.

Yaser’s suddenly become very interested in his watch. Zayn wants to look away too; he feels nervous, unsure where his mother’s going with this.

Trisha speaks kindly, choosing her words carefully. “Sweetheart, I don’t know the details of what happened, only that you and your family see things very differently. But if I were your mum, I’d want to know if you’d been in such serious danger, no matter what happened between us.”

“If you were my mum, you wouldn’t have disowned me in the first place,” Harry says, as sharply as he can without being rude. “You actually listened to Zayn; that’s why you’re here right now.”

Trisha bites her lip. “Yes, well…I was thinking that hearing what happened might help her to re-evaluate what’s important.”

“You don’t know my mum,” Harry says, with an obvious finality to his tone. He continues to avoid eye contact, picking at his still-pink fingernails.

Trisha locks eyes with Zayn, pity written all over her face. He returns a sad half-smile, as if to say, _you tried_. He so desperately wishes he could heal Harry’s wounds like Harry healed his shoulder.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about your safety anymore, Harry,” Yaser says, steering the conversation back to a more neutral ground. “Simon will know by now that we're aware of what he did. He wouldn’t dare send someone else after you and risk losing even more control of the Council.”

Harry nods. “Thank you for…everything,” he says, sounding weary.

Trisha smiles at him, patting his leg reassuringly. “It’s nothing, dear. We’re just glad you’re both safe. If you ever need anything, give us a ring. We could never repay you for saving Zayn, but we’ll certainly try.”

While they wait for the doctor to return and discharge Zayn like she’d promised earlier, the foursome discuss his next steps. Trisha argues passionately for him to come home to Bradford so that she can take care of him. Harry, not knowing Zayn's parents well enough to argue, only says that Zayn can stay with him as long as he likes. Zayn knows, however, that Harry's quietness isn’t ambivalence. He can see in his eyes how much he wants Zayn to stay.

As for Zayn, he’s missed his family more over the past few weeks than he ever had in his life. However, part of that ache was the fact that he was forbidden to speak to them, which is no longer the case. Truthfully, his heart wants to stay here with Harry, at least for a little longer. The idea of spending as much time together as they want, without the threat of murder or family rejection, sounds like heaven. Plus, as he tries to convince his mum, the travel would be much easier on him. There are a few tears when he voices this preference, but Trisha eventually allows it as long as he promises to call every day.

Within the half hour, the doctor returns to take Zayn’s vitals one more time. The whole time she examines him she shakes her head, muttering to herself in disbelief.

“No broken bones, no damage to any organs, veins and arteries are intact, you’re barely even in pain….I can’t explain how, but you’re _fine_ ,” she says.

Zayn and Harry look at each other, trying not to laugh; she almost seems angry about it.

“Not only did you survive against all odds, it doesn’t look like you’ll have any lasting complications. Just some nasty bruising. Keep those stitches dry until tomorrow and rest as much as possible.”

Zayn nods quickly as she changes the bandage on his chest, hoping she’ll be done soon so that they can all leave. He’s never needed a smoke so bad in his life, although he’d never say so out loud and get berated by both Harry _and_ his parents. He’d already been reprimanded by the doctor earlier.

When he's cleared to go, he tries to get out of bed too fast, not wanting to waste another second in this place. He grits his teeth when the pain in his shoulder slows him down.

“Let me help you,” Yaser says, helping Zayn out of bed while Trisha bustles around the room collecting everyone’s things.

He's only been here a day, but it somehow feels like he hasn’t used his legs in weeks. Trisha and Harry wait for them by the door while Yaser helps Zayn to the toilet. There, he changes into the clothes Harry brought with him this morning: a pair of shorts and a worn old Kiss t-shirt

“Let’s get you home, sunshine,” Trisha says softly once he reappears, looking a little more normal in regular clothes.

Zayn continues to lean on his father as he makes his way to the door. When they reach the others, Yaser steps away slightly, nodding at Harry to signal that they should switch positions.

Harry’s cheeks turn red as he snakes his arm around Zayn’s waist for support, squeezing him in close for just a second.

For years to come, the scars on Zayn's skin will remind him how close he was to losing everything that day: Harry, his family, his own life. But right now, with Harry by his side and his parents leading the way to the car, he thinks it's the safest he'll ever feel.

\--

“Are you sure this is okay?” Zayn asks from underneath Harry, grimacing.

Harry huffs indignantly and reaches behind him on the bed, scooping out a bit more of the lavender salve he’d concocted as soon as they'd arrived home. “A healing salve certainly isn’t going to make you feel worse.”

“But like, what if something in it interacts badly with my skin? What if something gets infected?”

Kneeling over Zayn, Harry works his fingers over his shoulder lightly. He’s hyper aware of the way Zayn sucks air in through his teeth when he applies too much pressure. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to put it anywhere near the stitches. I’ll let modern medicine take care of that,” Harry clarifies. “It’ll relax you and help with the pain, though.”

Harry pauses his work, running a stray finger over Zayn’s clavicle. The purple bruises aren’t a pretty sight, and neither are the remains of the tattoos on Zayn’s shoulder. Although the spell and stitches mended Zayn’s skin, neither method worked perfectly. The cartoon skull, a feathered wing, and Zayn’s grandfather’s name are now distorted and misaligned.

Harry doesn’t say anything about it; if it’s making _him_ sad to see the damage, he’s sure Zayn feels ten times worse. He realizes he’s been staring too long and quickly finishes his work.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Zayn smiles.

“You don’t need to thank me. I like it,” Harry answers, giving Zayn’s forehead a light kiss.

And he really does. Harry had arranged all the pillows so that Zayn could recline easily in bed, served him snacks, and, of course, researched what he could do to ease the pain with magic. While it’s not much, he hopes it makes Zayn feel a little better.

“I’d say you’re _almost_ as good as my mum,” Zayn teases.

“I can’t wait until you’re healed so I can go back to smacking you when you’re rude,” Harry says, yawning.

The late afternoon heat is stifling in the little cottage and it’s making his eyelids droop. Plus, after the events of the previous day, he feels like he could sleep another twenty-four hours straight. He lowers himself down onto the bed, nestling his head in Zayn’s lap. He pulls one of Zayn's hands up to his hair, humming approvingly when Zayn gently scratches his fingernails across his scalp.

The fingers in his hair lull Harry to sleep before he knows it. Scenes flash rapidly behind his eyelids as he dozes: he’s climbing into an old attic with light filtering through a small triangular window, sneezing at the dust; he laughs smugly as he obliterates Niall in a game of Scrabble; birds circle above him in the sky as he folds in half, panting from the effort of jogging across an old wooden bridge that only seems to grow longer the more he advances.

Suddenly, Harry’s consciousness returns to the present moment, back in his bed. Except…Zayn’s no longer underneath him. Harry looks around, dazed, before assuming that Zayn must be somewhere else in the cottage. He starts down the hallway and tries to call for him, but his voice won’t work. Panicked, he keeps looking, one hand raised to his throat. An ear-splitting shot rings out the second he turns into the kitchen, and he feels himself drop to the floor–

Harry startles awake, for real this time, heart pounding out of his chest.

“Shhhh, it’s okay,” Zayn murmurs, placing a reassuringly warm hand on Harry’s clammy neck. “I’m sorry for waking you. I was trying to move you over so I could have a smoke.”

“How long was I sleeping?” Harry asks, moving off Zayn’s lap groggily. His throat feels like sandpaper.

“Long enough for my leg to fall asleep,” Zayn grins, sliding off the edge of the bed. “Maybe ten minutes?”

Harry starts to get up to assist Zayn. He secretly feels grateful when Zayn reminds him that there’s nothing wrong with his legs, now that he's had time to gain back some strength.

Harry flops back down onto the bed, intending to knock out again while Zayn indulges his disgusting habit. He’s drifting off, wondering whether there’s a spell that would make him quit or at _least_ get rid of the smell, when Zayn calls his name from the front door

“Mmmm?” Harry mumbles, barely loud enough for his own ears to hear.

“Harry?” Zayn calls again in a more urgent tone.

“Coming…” Harry answers louder this time, wondering what it could be. Maybe the squirrels are ransacking his bird feeder again? He makes his way to the bedroom door unsteadily, heart still beating faster than usual.

When he turns into the sitting room, Zayn is frozen in front of the open door, doorknob still in his hand. Harry hesitates at the end of the hallway, feeling uneasy, before walking far enough into the room to see what lies outside.

He blinks once, then twice, wondering if he’s still dreaming after all. After only a second of hesitation, he reaches forwards and pushes the door closed, slamming it shut in his mother’s face.

“No thanks,” he says as he turns back towards his room, more to himself than to Zayn or Anne. How appropriate, for Anne to turn up on what has already been the worst week of his life.

“Harry…” Zayn starts uncertainly, voice following him down the hallway. “Was that…your mum?”

Harry hopes his silence suffices as a response. He’s furious, absolutely fucking livid, and suddenly more awake than he’s ever been. He paces around his small bedroom, heat rising up his chest and neck. His mind involuntarily returns to the last time he’d seen her, the day she’d finally put her foot down. His birthday.

_Despite eighteen being a milestone birthday, Harry guesses he won’t be receiving any presents today. He's made his choice. Yet somehow, he’s still not prepared for Anne’s knock on his bedroom door when it happens. Part of him has been nursing the possibility of calling her bluff; she’s always been unpredictable._

_“I’m sorry to remind you that you’re no longer welcome here,” Anne says flatly, handing him a cheque._

_Harry snatches it out of her hand, shreds it with his fingers, and tosses the pieces into her face._

_“Harry, you_ knew _this day was coming!” Anne shouts, exasperated._

When Harry’s pacing orients him in the direction of the hallway, he sees that Zayn’s followed him. He’s hovering by the door, looking alarmed.

“You don’t think you should…hear what she has to say?”

“I have less than zero interest.”

“She’s your _mum_ , Harry,” Zayn says, sounding more than a little upset. “I’ll go speak to her. If it’s important, I can pass along a message.”

_Harry haphazardly chucks things into his travel bags, trying to decide which of his possessions deserve to take up the precious little space he has._

_“Sorry I’m such a disappointment! Sorry I can’t be like perfect little Gemma, who does everything you tell her to do like a fucking robot!” he shouts after his mum._

_She’s gone now, making her way downstairs rather than staying to face the consequences of her decision._

_“If you’re going to allow the Coven to kick out your only son, I don’t want to be your son anymore anyway!”_

“No, Zayn, I don’t need you to take a message for me,” Harry answers hotly. His voice is much louder than he’d ever like it to be while speaking to Zayn, but if he doesn’t raise it, he won’t be able to hear himself over the cacophony inside his head. “Sometimes, people do things that are unforgivable, and that’s the end of it. Not everyone has a nice fucking family like yours!”

A low electrical buzz fills the room. The fairy lights decorating the walls glow unnaturally bright before burning out with a soft pop.

Zayn winces, eyeing the now-dead fairy lights with concern. “Harry, I’m sure she can hear you.”

“I don’t care! Let her hear!”

For a moment, the only sound is Harry’s words echoing off the walls.

Zayn takes a deep breath. “Alright. It sounds like you want to be alone for a bit. I’m going to see what she has to say, but I won’t tell you if you don’t want. Is that okay?”

Harry doesn’t answer, unwilling to commit to any course of action. All he wants is to calm down before he lashes out at Zayn more than he already has. He wants Zayn’s fingers back in his hair, wants him to shush him and tells him it’s okay again.

Zayn makes the decision for him, crossing to the bedside table to grab his mobile. When he passes on his way back to the door, he leans towards Harry tentatively to test his reaction. It’s as if Harry’s a wild animal he wants to pet, and he’s not entirely sure he won’t get bitten if he gets any closer.

Harry forces himself to relax his shoulders and allows Zayn into his space for a kiss on the cheek.

“Text me if you need me to come back inside,” Zayn says on his way out, shutting the door softly behind him.

Harry’s heart sinks with regret. What the fuck is he doing? Shouting at his boyfriend, who’s done nothing wrong and is already having an awful go of it as it is? He almost wishes Zayn had shouted back. He deserves it.

His internal monologue halts as the sound of Anne’s muffled voice, likely introducing herself to Zayn, tugs him right back into his memory.

_Harry stomps down the hallway, dragging a suitcase and multiple bags on his aching shoulders. Anne stands by the door, eyes red. A tiny sliver of hope causes his breath to hitch; is she going to change her mind? He slows his pace, waiting for her to throw an arm out and stop him. His heart sinks when she does throw an arm out – to open the door._

_Harry yanks his suitcase over the threshold and turns to face Anne, giving her one more chance to redeem herself._

_“You don't want to be my child anymore – is that what you said?” she asks coldly. “That’s fine by me. I’ve got another one.” She slams the door in Harry’s face so hard that it ruffles his hair._

A strangled noise, half sob and half scream, tears itself from Harry’s mouth. It unleashes such a force of energy that the drinking glass on the bedside table cracks loudly, as do the two candle jars on his desk. He hears a picture frame in the living room drop to the ground and shatter.

The sudden release of energy makes his body feel so heavy. Despite the heat, he drags himself into the bed and crawls under the duvet.

He shakes with tears, remembering what it felt like to stand in front of his old home, alone save for the items he was able to fit into his bags. He’d managed to pack much of the contents of his bedroom, but it hardly amounted to anything in the grand scheme of things. It certainly wasn’t enough for an 18-year-old to live on his own with. Fortunately, he'd had some money in his savings at the time. But no car. No place to stay. Just his bags and his bicycle, which he retrieved from the side of the house before calling for a taxi.

It was a blessing that Louis was able to slip out of town before word of Harry’s fate became common knowledge. The two of them had holed up in a cheap hotel together until they found somewhere for Harry to stay. The one silver lining was that Harry could choose the place he wanted to call his own. He’d always wanted to live in the New Forest, where witches had practiced for generations.

Harry cries and cries remembering it all, flipping the pillow when it gets too wet. Tears spill from his eyes over the nagging feeling that he’s alone in the world, over the fact that he didn’t finish sixth form, over how much he misses his cats. He sobs to think about his tenth birthday, when his mum took him and all his friends to Disneyland Paris for a perfect weekend. Then he's mad again when he reminds himself of Anne's short temper, of the way she always made him feel like he was doing something wrong. He laments the distance between him and Gemma, when they used to be so close. He cries because he didn't have a mum to go to when he was being hunted or when his boyfriend almost got murdered. He cries over not being able to tell his mum that he _has_ a boyfriend.

He estimates that it takes twenty minutes for the raw emotion to drain all the way out of him, although he can’t be sure. It’s certainly enough time for him to wonder what Zayn could possibly still be doing outside. Harry wants to text him to come back in, to send his mother away and pretend that this never happened, but he’s not even sure where he left his mobile. He scans the room quickly. When he doesn’t locate it, he buries his head back under the blanket. The warm light filtering in through the window is at odds with his stormy mood; it makes his head ache.

Harry lies in bed for another five minutes, eyes swollen red, brain too soggy to think coherently. Eventually, the silence becomes oppressive and only intensifies his loneliness. He’d rather scream and yell and fight than sit here and carry all this sadness on his own.

He rises slowly, pushing his tangled, damp hair out of his sweaty face. As he trudges down the hallway to the front door, his mind races through all the things he’s going to say. Potential topics include: how Anne is a terrible mother, how Anne put him in danger by sending him off on his own, and how much he wants Anne to leave and never come back.

Upon reaching the front door, Harry rests his hand on the knob and listens. It’s too thick; although he can hear voices murmuring on the other side, he still can’t make out what they’re saying. Before he loses his nerve, Harry squares his shoulders and pulls the door open.

The talking stops immediately. Both Zayn and Anne, who are sitting together on the front step, turn to look at him in surprise.

Harry averts his eyes, focusing instead on the ground. Suddenly, he can’t think of a single one of the arguments that had been racing through his mind a second ago. Meanwhile, the leaden feeling within his limbs is becoming heavier than ever.

Without a word, he sits down on the step between them and buries his face in his hands. For a moment, the only sound is the birds twittering from the trees across the garden; not even Zayn knows what to say.

Somehow, Harry starts crying again, silently this time. He's amazed; he hadn’t thought he could find any more tears if he wanted to.

“Oh, Harry,” Anne sighs to his left.

His shoulders tense. The way she’d said it sounded like an admonishment, one of the millions of reprimands she’d delivered over the years in response to what she called his “dramatics.” He’s shifting his weight to stand up and go back inside, defeated, when Anne wraps her arms around him. Against all odds, he cries even harder.

“Why are you even here?” he wails pathetically.

“Zayn’s mum rang me last night,” she says into his hair. “It was certainly one of the stranger conversations I’ve had in my life.”

Harry shifts, loosening Anne’s embrace so that he can see Zayn through his tousled hair.

Zayn chuckles at the quizzical look on Harry’s face. “Sorry. Mum can be a bit…much sometimes,” he says sheepishly, reaching out to wipe away Harry’s fresh tears with his thumb.

Harry sniffles and slides away from Anne slightly, resting his head on his arms so that he can look at her. She’s tired and sad too, he realizes. Her hair’s done up and she's wearing an expensive-looking summer dress, as usual, but that doesn't hide the exhaustion in her eyes.

Anne lets Harry adjust his position but maintains a hand on his back, absentmindedly rubbing small circles into it. Harry feels betrayed for letting himself be comforted by her touch. She may be soothing now, but the other shoe will drop at some point. It always does.

“Trisha told me what happened and I’m…I’m so sorry, Harry.” Anne pauses, dotting one manicured finger to the edges of both of her eyes. “Not even in my nightmares did I think you’d become a hunter’s target. Without proper training, your visions aren’t a threat to anyone.”

“Yeah, thanks to you,” Harry spits before he can stop himself. The sudden flare of anger helps bring his tears to a final stop; he wipes the remaining wetness on his face onto his t-shirt.

Anne tenses at the comment, her hand stopping its circles on his back for a second. To her credit, she ignores it. “She also told me about how she and Yaser are risking their standing in the Council for the two of you,” she continues. “After hearing that and listening to Zayn talk about how much this whole situation has affected you, I feel ashamed.” Anne stares out at the trees across the road, not making eye contact with anyone.

Harry sneaks another look to his right to see Zayn’s reaction to this statement.

Zayn shrugs in response, not revealing much.

Harry’s curious to know what he said and makes a mental note to ask later. He hopes Zayn revealed what needed to be said and nothing more.

Harry wants to believe that Anne means what she’s saying, but a large part of him worries that Trisha shamed her into coming here, or that Anne has some ulterior motive. He wants to test her, wants to see how sorry she really is. Is she actually remorseful, or will she storm out if he keeps pushing her?

“Interesting that it took you six months and a call from someone else’s mum to feel shame about what you did,” Harry says. He realizes too late just how harsh it sounds out loud.

Anne removes her hand from Harry’s back, but, to his amazement, again absorbs the blow without retaliation. “I was wrong, Harry. And I hope you know that I had doubts all along, even if I was too weak to listen to them.”

Harry scoffs.

“Look, I don’t expect you to understand, let alone forgive me, but will you let me explain?” she pleads, turning to look him directly in the eye.

Harry doesn’t say anything. Zayn places a steady hand on his forearm, silently recommending that he stay and listen.

Anne eventually takes his silence as permission to proceed. “You know that your father and I didn’t have the greatest of relationships.”

Harry nods. That was an understatement.

“What you don’t know is that I took great pains to hide how bad it really got from you and your sister. He was not a nice man, Harry. Things kept escalating and…” Anne trails off, her voice shaking. “I had to get us out of that house, because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if he ever hurt you or Gemma.”

Harry sits up straight, feeling like he’s going to be violently ill. “What?” he demands, looking from Anne to Zayn and back again. Zayn doesn’t answer, just rubs his thumb soothingly against Harry’s arm. His calm expression suggests that he’s already heard this story.

“I was in a bind,” Anne continues. “Although your stepfather and I make good money now, I had next to nothing of my own back then. Certainly not enough to leave your father and raise two young children on my own. I didn’t know what to do, so I went to the head of the Coven. I was desperate.”

Harry scowls at the mention of Ben. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“It was Ben who hired a lawyer for me and got us out safely, threw your father out of the Coven, and made sure he moved away. Ben made it crystal clear that if your father did anything to hurt the three of us, there would be consequences.” Anne exhales and shakes her head, momentarily lost in the awful memory. “Ben also gave me the most generous gift I’ve ever received – he bought the house we still live in. He took care of us until I got back on my feet, out of nothing but the kindness of his heart. We are forever indebted to him.”

Harry conjures up an image of the two-storey home in Holmes Chapel that he, Gemma, and Anne had moved into following his parents’ separation. It’s a big farmhouse-style home with brick walls covered in gorgeous ivy and windows that look out over an expansive garden. Now that Anne says it, it seems strange that they moved into a much bigger house after leaving his father. However, this didn't occur to him at seven years old.

“Surely you can afford to repay him now?” Harry asks.

“In pounds, sure,” Anne nods. “But that’s not what I mean. I don’t think it’s possible to repay a kindness so great.”

It’s Harry’s turn to stare out towards the trees as he tries to process this new information. In a way, Ben had been looking out for Harry for most of his life. Fact as it may be, it’s fucking infuriating.

“So you see, when Ben expressed that you'd have responsibilities to uphold while receiving your training, I didn't feel like I was in any place to argue. Especially not when it's a standard expectation for trainees to fulfill whatever duties the High Coven assigns to them."

Harry barks a laugh. "Lou's interning in the A&E at the Healers' Center and Gemma's literally a bartender."

"She's a potions mixologist," Anne corrects without hesitation.

Harry groans, exasperated. "So her cocktails have magical qualities. Who cares? My point is that those jobs are fun, or at least rewarding. Most people aren't asked to commit white collar crime like I was."

Anne sighs and nods, looking like she's at least thinking it over. "That is true. Your gift is rare, though, and the members of the Coven are used to a certain standard of living. As our leader, Ben has to make sure he delivers on that. I thought that making his life easier would be the least we could do as a family.” Anne finishes gingerly, as if she’s waiting for Harry to blow up again.

His nostrils flare in irritation. “Yeah, but you’re my _mum_. I always thought that when it came down to it, you’d realize that your own family was more important than Ben. Even if he did do something really generous years ago.”

“And _I_ thought you'd realize that helping the Coven was less of a sacrifice than breaking up our family,” Anne counters. “You can’t pretend that you weren’t given weeks of warnings – maybe even months, if I’m remembering correctly – about what would happen if you refused. You’ve always been stubborn, but I was so hurt when you didn’t change your mind in the end.” She shakes her head.

Heat prickles all over Harry’s body. He can’t believe that his mother, a middle-aged adult, would be so emotionally immature as to interpret his actions as “breaking up” the family. Besides, he's heard so much of this before.

He opens his mouth to argue, but his words die in his throat when Zayn squeezes his forearm. Harry looks to him, and Zayn shakes his head slightly, as if to say, _Let her finish_. Harry exhales sharply through his nose but remains silent. When he turns back towards Anne, her eyes are glassy with tears.

“I trusted Ben’s ultimatum because I had never seen him make a decision that went poorly for our Coven. That being said, there’s a first time for everything.” She wipes away one stray tear that spills over her lashes. “I’m so sorry that I haven’t been here for you, but I want you to know that I never stopped missing you. You’re a good person, love. Better than me.”

Anne extends her arms to envelop Harry in another hug. He instinctively shrinks from her touch at first, but allows it once he starts to process her words. There's no doubt in his mind that he will never fully forgive her for what happened this year. But her willingness to admit that she was wrong, coupled with the added context of her perspective, means _something_ , he supposes. It’s a starting point.

She grips Harry tightly, as if she’s afraid he’ll run away again if she doesn’t hold him down. “Is there any way I can make it right with you boys?” she asks, her question muffled by Harry’s curls.

Harry, who can’t begin to imagine how he would answer that question, shrugs.

Zayn, however, clears his throat. “I can think of one way.”

Anne releases Harry and they both turn to face Zayn, curious.

Zayn looks surprised at himself, and maybe a little embarrassed, to have spoken out so forwardly. But the sparkle in his eyes indicates that he’s come up with a really good idea. “Let's all ring my parents together.”

 _The treaty._ Harry nods determinedly, knowing exactly what Zayn’s hinting at. He just hopes, for all of their sakes, that Anne’s up for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Des...I'm sure you're amazing people irl...please do not sue me for libel 😭 For legal reasons this is fiction!!!


	10. lights up and they know who you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who has read this far - I can't thank you enough! I hope you like the conclusion. Epilogue coming next week. :)

Zayn breathes deeply, inhaling the familiar scents of wood, ink, paper, and the lingering trace of cleaning supplies. Although this particular lecture hall is foreign to him, his nose picks out the scents that are consistent in any academic setting. Although he adapted to the New Forest over the weeks he spent there, it’s nice to feel like he’s back on his own turf, so to speak. It might even feel like he’s walking into his first lecture of the new year, were it not for the fact that he’s waiting to get patted down before he enters.

In front of him, Harry's getting felt up by O’Brien, one of the burliest, most experienced hunters in the Order. Another hunter that Zayn vaguely recognizes scans Harry with her eyes, double-checking to make sure O’Brien doesn’t miss anything.

Zayn takes another deep breath in an effort to relax his shoulders. Watching a hunter that dangerous invade Harry’s space puts him on edge.

Finding nothing, O’Brien grunts and nods towards the inside of the room, confirming that Harry’s cleared to enter. Harry takes a couple steps inside, but dutifully turns back to wait.

Zayn steps towards O’Brien, expecting that he’ll pat him down next, when he hears a gruff voice from his left.

“I don’t think so.”

Zayn turns to see another pair beckoning to him. When he doesn’t recognize them, he realizes that they’re witches. The Coven must want to check the hunters entering the lecture hall themselves. It's smart, but Zayn isn't sure that it bodes well for the mood of the meeting.

He swallows, heart speeding up as he approaches the two men. He isn't uniformly afraid of witches anymore, but these two are just as intimidating as O'Brien. Harry once mentioned that the Coven trains some witches in the use of firearms and counter-tracking methods so that they can “neutralize” hunters who pose a threat. If Zayn had to guess, he would assume that these two are part of that number.

He tries to be a good sport as one of the men pats him down, knowing he won’t find anything. His revolver is still in the lockbox under Harry’s bed. It hasn't been touched since the day they first kissed.

The witch claps Zayn’s shoulder to indicate that he’s satisfied, already looking for the next hunter in line. Zayn steps forwards and takes Harry’s outstretched hand.

“I didn’t mind that,” Harry grins, inconspicuously jerking his head back towards the entrance. “He was quite fit.”

Zayn chuckles half-heartedly, knowing Harry’s just trying to make him laugh. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him that O’Brien’s body count is in the double digits. And when he says body count, he doesn’t mean it in the sexy way.

As Zayn and Harry approach the first row of seats, Zayn takes in the scene around them. Simon had initially pushed to hold this meeting in his office, but the witches wouldn’t go for it. They’d insisted on a neutral space, one that was public yet private enough to allow for frank conversation. That’s why hunters and witches from all over the country are filtering into this spacious, rented lecture hall at the University of London.

The room is set up like an amphitheatre, with tiered rows of seats leading down to a podium in the centre. Behind the podium are two rows of chairs – one to the right and one to the left. Zayn's parents are already sat in the row to the left, which means that these chairs must be for the Council and High Coven. The tiered rows of seats with their crescent-shaped, wooden desktops must be for everyone else.

Zayn notices a two more strong-looking people standing against the wall behind the podium, watching everyone file inside. He scans the full circumference of the room and sees several more pairs stationed at intervals around the hall. He recognizes one person in most of the couples and realizes that each one must be made up of one hunter and one witch. While the regular audience must remain unarmed, Zayn suspects that the pairs standing guard are armed to the teeth. It’s unnerving, but necessary. Half of the room is trained to kill and the other half has undisclosed, potentially dangerous, magical powers.

It all makes for a strange atmosphere; both sides ignore each other while remaining hyper-aware of the other's presence. The hunters have unofficially claimed the left side of the room, while the witches have settled on the right. Most attendees sit in tense silence, although some chat with their neighbors as if it’s a casual social gathering. As if there's no chance of this meeting becoming a bloodbath.

As Zayn and Harry descend the stairs together, they wave hello to Louis on one side of the aisle and Liam on the other. Zayn grins at Karen and Geoff, Liam's mum and dad, as soon as he spots them. They rush to the aisle to hug Zayn tight, demanding updates on his condition.

He laughs, allowing them to kiss his cheeks while he explains that his shoulder is almost completely healed.

"We're so relieved," Karen exclaims, hand to her heart. "And we want you to know that Liam is being punished accordingly. His existence has been reduced to staring at the four walls of his bedroom for the rest of the summer." Geoff nods solemnly.

Zayn remembers the last time Liam met this fate, the summer before year ten when he’d stayed at the Payne's house for a whole week. They’d only intended to sample from the liquor cabinet that night, but they didn't yet know their limits. They'd been caught halfway to a blackout when Liam’s retching roused his mum from slumber.

It’s absurd, really, that Liam would receive the same punishment for attempted murder and unsupervised drinking. It makes Zayn want to laugh, but he restrains himself. He knows that locking Liam’s Xbox, mobile, and laptop in their bedroom closet is how the Paynes show they care.

“I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Harry,” Zayn says, loving the way it feels rolling off his tongue.

Harry shakes Geoff’s hand and, of course, turns on the charm for Karen, playing along when she tells him how beautiful his hair is and asks to touch it.

Zayn catches Liam’s mortified look from where he remains seated. He attempts to stifle a laugh, telling the Paynes that they’ll see them again soon.

They’re stopped once more on their way to their seats, by Doniya this time. Zayn doesn’t even see her until she’s practically on top of him, laughing about how good it is to finally see him in the flesh again. She returns to her seat with her friends only after she’s made Zayn and Harry promise to get drinks with her before summer's end.

Since Zayn’s parents are seated behind the podium, he allows Harry to lead him to seats on the witches’ side. They spot Anne in the front row with a young woman and an older man to her right; Zayn assumes they must be Gemma and Robin. He tries to ignore the way the witches around them shift uncomfortably as he shuffles into the row with Harry. He's the only person in the room to break the unspoken barrier between hunters and witches.

Now it’s Harry’s turn to introduce Zayn to his sister and step-father. Harry’s smile, which had oozed charm for the Paynes, has been replaced with nervous lip-biting. He doesn’t look unhappy though, just off-kilter, a little less sure of himself when he’s around his own family. It is, after all, the first time he’s spoken to them in months. He looks especially uncertain when it comes to Gemma, until she calls him a stubborn idiot and embraces him fiercely.

They take their seats, Harry next to Anne and Zayn on the aisle. Harry seems relieved, but Zayn feels more and more anxious as the room fills. Even though his palm is growing slippery with sweat, he reaches for Harry’s hand. Harry’s the one piece of normalcy still within his grasp.

Zayn loosens his skinny tie, willing himself not to sweat through his crisp white shirt. It’s funny; if he didn’t know what he was here for, he would think everyone was dressed for a fancy dinner party. Harry, for example, had quarrelled with Anne that morning over his initial choice of a bright pink suit.

“We’re trying to sign a treaty, Harry, not prancing around at fashion week,” she'd said, sending him back to his room to change into something more “serious.”

Harry had rolled his eyes, mumbling about how he should look good if everyone’s going to be staring at him. He'd reappeared moments later in a black suit and silky pink shirt, in order to retain _some_ colour in his outfit.

Anne, in her sensible beige dress, had narrowed her eyes at his choice of ribbon bowtie. In the end, she'd bitten her tongue.

As the room fills, the noise level falls to a low buzz. Many people are sitting in anxious silence, waiting for something to happen. Even Zayn’s mum and dad are whispering to each other tensely from their seats behind the podium.

Zayn’s affection for his parents momentarily displaces his nervousness. He never doubted how much they trusted him, but organizing a meeting like this, despite the risk to their own social standing, is such a declaration of love that he almost can’t stand it.

When a hush falls over the room, Harry nudges Zayn to look behind him. “That’s Ben,” he whispers, referring to a clean-cut man in a sharp-looking navy suit. He descends the stairs and takes the final empty seat behind the podium on the witches’ side. He’s younger than Zayn had imagined.

“And that’s Simon,” Zayn responds, nodding towards him as he enters in a grey suit.

“I recognize him,” Harry nods. “From my vision.”

Simon’s trying to exude his typical confidence, but it must be as clear to him as it is to everyone else that he’s not in control of this room. Something’s a little off about him, maybe a thinness in his face that wasn’t there the last time Zayn saw him. As Simon passes, Zayn can’t help but shrink away slightly.

Harry must notice, because he gives Zayn’s hand a quick squeeze.

When Simon crosses in front of the rest of the Council to take his seat at the end, some of them say hello or nod in acknowledgement. Others, including Zayn’s parents, stare straight ahead, as if he’s not there.

Once Simon’s in his seat, Yaser brings Trisha’s hand to his lips, delivering a kiss for good luck. Trisha takes a deep breath and stands, pulling a much-wrinkled paper from her skirt pocket.

She and Zayn had been on FaceTime obsessing over this speech for days. The first drafts were written for Zayn to deliver himself, but he had felt so ill just thinking about it. He’s never been one for public speaking.

They’d gone back and forth, Trisha arguing that it would sound more powerful for Zayn to speak about his own experience, and Zayn reasoning that Trisha was more confident and respected. He’d reminded her that the other members of the Order would want to listen to what she had to say. Obviously, Zayn had won out, but he helped Trisha make sure that the speech still reflected his perspective.

Trisha takes to the podium, her cheery floral blouse doing nothing to convey the seriousness of the meeting. The room is as quiet as a graveyard now; there’s no need for her to gather everyone’s attention. She clears her throat and begins.

“Good morning. I want to welcome both the Coven of the Crimson Rose and the UK branch of the International Order of Assassins.”

Zayn is startled by Harry’s quiet snort beside him. He turns, confused, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m sorry but…you call yourselves _assassins_?” Harry whispers, barely able to control his glee. “Hunters…sure. But _assassins_? Give me a break.” He puts his fist in front of his mouth to hide his laughter, shoulders shaking.

Zayn rolls his eyes but is truthfully grateful for something to break the tension. “Okay, my little English rose,” he whispers back, pinching Harry’s thigh for his insolence.

“We are holding this unprecedented gathering to discuss the recent events that have impacted both of our communities," Trisha continues. "I’m sure that some of you have heard a wildly embellished story, while others have heard a version that’s significantly downplayed. Therefore, as the organizer of this meeting, I will be sharing the facts of what occurred, as well as my own opinion. Then, I will open the floor to others. Once everyone who wants to speak has had a chance, we can vote on a potential solution.”

Trisha looks around the room before continuing, as if she’s waiting for someone to challenge her. No one does.

“Recently, my son Zayn headed off to complete his initiation hunt.”

Zayn does his best not to shrink visibly into his seat as every eye in the room turns to him.

“He was operating off the intelligence that his target, a young witch named Harry Styles, was a dangerous diviner. He was told that Harry needed to be eliminated immediately for the good of our Order.”

Anne crosses and uncrosses her legs on Harry’s other side. After that long conversation Zayn had had with Anne outside Harry’s place a couple weeks ago, he knows she understands his perspective. She promised that she held no ill will towards him and even thanked him for being there for Harry when she wasn’t. However, she’s clearly still uncomfortable with hearing the details of Zayn’s hunt put so plainly.

“However, “Trisha says, “when my son arrived, he found that this was not the case. He realized that he was stalking a young, unarmed witch. A boy with no training in divination, who was living on his own and teaching himself kitchen witchcraft and healing.” There’s a definite edge to Trisha’s voice now; she’s on a roll.

“Zayn, being the good young man that I raised him to be, realized this was not right. He decided, all on his own, to forego the hunt and deal with the consequences later. My son hid out with Harry rather than come home to ask for help. He was scared that he, or even our entire family, would be ejected from the Order if he admitted to what he’d decided. Please let that sink in – Zayn felt more supported by a witch he’d been told was evil than by the community that raised him. By his own parents.” Trisha stops to take a breath, probably trying to prevent herself from getting choked up.

Zayn’s heart aches to see her so upset. If he could, he’d run right up to the podium and hug her.

“I didn’t get to hear this story the way I would have liked. Zayn had not yet worked up the courage to tell me on his own. No, he was forced to tell me this story when he woke up with me by his side as he recovered from a gunshot wound in hospital. A gunshot wound that was inflicted by his best friend Liam, who Simon had ordered to come finish the job. If it hadn’t been for Harry and his cousin using a healing spell, my only son would have died that day. And for what?”

Trisha stares out at the shocked crowd, knowing no one would dare try to answer her question.

“It has also been revealed that Simon deliberately fed Zayn false information about Harry’s abilities. He wanted Harry killed to avenge his late nephew, who lost his life during an attempt to hunt Harry’s father – who turned out to be estranged, might I add. When Zayn wouldn't do it, Simon ordered Liam to hunt Harry _and_ Zayn, on threat of death.”

Trisha allows for a dramatic pause. The room fills with gasps and hurried whispers, just as they knew it would. The witches, who need no reason to hate the hunters, are throwing pointed looks at the hunters’ side of the room. But more importantly, most of the hunters are looking disgusted as well.

Zayn couldn’t feel any prouder. Trisha is _killing_ it.

Harry nudges Zayn to pull his attention back towards the front of the room. “Look at Simon,” he says, with a humourless chuckle.

Unlike everyone else, Simon is only watching Trisha with an expression of vague disinterest. It’s infuriating.

Trisha waits until the room quiets itself again before gearing up for her call to action. “As hunters, we are meant to be fighting evil. I would argue that sending our youngest out into the world to slaughter each other is the definition of evil. And it goes without saying,” she adds coldly, “that sending a teenager to avenge a personal loss has never been how we operate.”

Zayn holds his breath, knowing that the final ask is coming soon. Everything’s going well so far, but he hardly dares to hope for a positive reaction.

“It is the view of myself and my family that our traditional method of eliminating evil is not suited for the modern age. If we continue the way we’re going, we only stand to contribute to evil. My family is prepared to leave the Order if we have to, but that’s not what want. This is a strong, loving community with a rich history,” she says, smacking her fist on the podium for emphasis. “I would rather see it change for the better than abandon it.

"I would like to propose voting on a treaty. Once everyone who wants to has had a chance to speak, I will read the text of a first draft that I’ve co-authored. The gist is that if the Coven will agree to certain restrictions upon the use of magic, the Order can cease hunting and function as an official regulatory body.”

The volume at which the room erupts following this suggestion makes it feel a lot smaller than it is. The armed guards around the room stand up a little straighter, watching for any signs of trouble.

Zayn removes his hand from Harry’s for a moment to wipe his sweat on his trousers. They look at each other nervously, both doubting whether this could really work. It's hard to tell whether the enraged cacophony is directed at what happened to Harry and Zayn, or at the mention of a treaty.

The rest of Harry’s family look equally nervous. Gemma chews her nails, Robin taps one of his feet rapidly, and Anne twists her fingers in her lap.

Trisha gives the audience a moment to discuss amongst themselves before holding up two hands to request silence. “Please, everyone who wants to speak will have a chance. I’m now going to open the floor for comments.” She returns to her seat, where Yaser beams at her and whispers something that makes her smile at the ground bashfully.

The room goes deathly quiet again when Simon rises to take to the podium. Everyone, even the witches, appears to be on the edges of their seats.

Zayn knows he is. He’s dying to hear Simon try to justify his actions.

“Good morning, everyone. Thank you for your…impassioned speech, Mrs. Malik,” Simon says condescendingly.

Despite looking more stressed than usual, Simon’s clearly retained his arrogance. Zayn clenches the fist of his free hand so hard his fingernails leave marks. He could kill Simon for his tone alone, never mind the rest. Simon is supposed to be his parents’ _friend_ , after all.

“First, I want to address these accusations against me," Simon continues. "Yes, I will admit that I made a terrible mistake. I did something that was very clearly against our customs.”

Zayn leans forwards, hardly able to believe his ears. Is Simon actually…apologizing?

“I should never have located a target for Mr. Malik or offered him my support in any way. As we all know, an initiation hunt should be completed independently.” Simon peers out at the audience with his characteristically smug smile, giving everyone time to process his words.

 _Now that’s more like it_ , Zayn thinks, settling back in his seat just hard enough to elicit a phantom ache from his shoulder. Of course Simon would play stupid. He’s acting as if the Order was displeased because he helped Zayn during his short-lived hunt. Not because he tried to settle a personal vendetta or made threats upon Zayn and Liam’s lives.

Zayn forces himself to deepen the shallow breaths he’s pulling into his lungs. If he doesn’t take care to restrain himself, he may just leap over the desk and attack Simon in front of everyone.

“Second,” Simon carries on, “I agree that this community has a unique history and culture. However, I disagree with the assessment that making drastic changes is the best way to preserve it. The reason this Order is what it is today, the reason we are who we are, is because we have followed the same laws for centuries. We are strong because our families’ bloodlines are populated by hunters who believed in our cause, followed our traditions, and even gave their lives to protect ordinary citizens from the evils of sorcery.”

Harry makes an irritated noise and rolls his eyes. Zayn hears a couple snide remarks from the witches behind them as well.

“Finally, I can certainly sympathize with the emotional journey the Malik family has endured. However, I do not perceive Mr. Malik’s decision to terminate his hunt as honourable. In fact, I view it as a moral failing.” Simon looks directly into Zayn’s eyes.

Zayn's blood _boils_. Unfortunately, there’s nothing he can do other than sit and listen.

“If we allow ourselves to be swayed by a witch claiming to be ‘one of the good ones,’ we have gone too soft,” Simon argues. “They want us to think they’re innocent so that we leave them alone to do whatever they please. I have recently watched several hunters fall into this trap, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of hunting witches who, in their eyes, don’t deserve it. I must remind you that our job is not to decide whether a witch does or doesn’t deserve to be hunted; our job is to eliminate evil.” Simon pauses for dramatic effect, eyes now boring into Harry’s.

To Harry’s credit, he meets Simon’s gaze readily. His chin juts out slightly, almost like a challenge.

A wicked smile spreads across Simon’s face. “Any witch, by nature of who he is and what he is capable of, is evil.”

Predictably, the witches' side of the room explodes with anger. Zayn turns to look behind him and sees that a few witches are starting to stand up. “Shit. Do you think they’ll leave?” he mutters.

“I don’t know,” Harry answers, chewing on his bottom lip again.

They both turn back to the front when they hear a man’s commanding voice remind them that anyone who leaves won’t get to vote. It must have been Ben; he’s standing and motioning for those who have stood to return to their seats.

“Yes, I let Mrs. Malik speak without interruption. Please allow me the same respect,” Simon says with his disgustingly smug smile.

He really is loving this, Zayn can tell. He’s toying with them, appealing to the hunters’ sense of identity by reinforcing their common enemy rather than reminding them of what brings them together.

Simon clasps his hands behind his back and concludes his argument. “Finally, I will not apologize for ordering the hunt of our own when they make a clear and conscious break from our rules and traditions. We cannot allow our Order to be diluted by those who do not have what it takes to call themselves hunters. What does it mean to be a hunter if we allow anyone to oppose the practice of hunting without consequence? I urge you to reject this treaty. Voting no is a vote to keep our ancient traditions alive. Thank you.” Simon bows his head, indicating that he’s finished.

A couple families on the hunters' side of the room clap in earnest. The sound dies out relatively quickly when they realize they’re in the minority.

Simon’s confident demeanour cracks for the tiniest of moments before he resets his expression. Surely, he was expecting wider support.

A tiny seed of hope sprouts deep inside Zayn’s chest. He's careful to remind himself, though, that the audience’s disgust at Simon doesn’t mean they’ll support a treaty.

Someone a few rows back, a deep-voiced witch, calls out, “Let’s hear what Ben’s got to say, shall we?” Many of the other witches shout their agreement.

Both Zayn and Harry watch Ben shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Nobody, not even Anne, knows how Ben feels about the idea of a treaty; he’d been strangely tight-lipped about it. When they'd run through the potential outcomes of this meeting last week, Harry had guessed that Ben's silence meant no.

Anne, however, had told him to keep an open mind. “Ben can be reasonable,” she'd said over the phone.

Seeing Harry’s blood pressure skyrocket immediately, Zayn had quickly pressed a hand over his mouth and reminded him to take a deep breath before he responded.

Given the uncertainty, Zayn is eager to hear Ben speak. He knew Simon would be his regular awful self and shoot down the proposal, but from Zayn’s perspective, the witches stand to gain more than they would lose.

Ben stands and buttons his suit jacket before approaching the podium. Once he’s behind it, he rubs the scruff on his chin thoughtfully, as if he’s not quite sure what he’ll say himself.

“Obviously, I _strongly_ disagree with Simon’s characterization of us as evil,” he begins. “I don’t think it’s evil to use the gifts we’ve been given to our advantage, to make sure that the members of our coven are successful and prosperous. I don’t believe anything we do calls for us to be murdered. I welcome the day when we can move through life without targets on our backs.”

Murmurs of assent swirl throughout the room.

“However, I must admit that I agree with him on some points. First, I feel similarly about valuing…erm…loyalty,” Ben says awkwardly, eyes shifting around the room. He’s trying very hard not to look at Harry, but it’s obvious who he’s referring to. “Each member of the Coven is obligated to contribute to its operations for our collective benefit. If we don't utilize the gifts of our diviners, we will not retain the wealth and political power we've worked hard for. A diviner who refuses to contribute to this system should not, in my opinion, continue to reap the benefits of Coven membership.

"Further, we may find ourselves endeared to Mrs. Malik because she bestowed mercy upon a kind and innocent witch. However, this particular witch severed ties with our coven months ago. I don’t think we should let this particular story pull on our heart-strings and impact our decision-making."

Zayn hisses and wiggles his fingers as much as he can, silently requesting that Harry stop crushing his hand.

Harry relaxes his fingers and whispers an apology, all without taking his eyes off Ben.

“The other thing I agree with,” Ben continues, “is having a healthy suspicion with regards to this proposed treaty. I would like to hear more from other members of the Coven, but at this time I am leaning towards voting no. Any power the hunters have over us now is unofficial. By signing this sort of treaty, we would be granting them formal control over the Coven. I’m not sure that signing our rights away to an organization that has hated us for centuries is any better than having to watch our backs like we've always done. And,” he adds in a conspiratorial tone, “how do we know that this isn’t some big ruse? Something to distract us while they invent sneakier ways of picking us off?” Ben holds up his hands and shrugs, placing the responsibility of answering that question upon the attendees.

 _That could have gone worse_ , Zayn thinks, as Ben returns to his seat. _He could have shot it down outright_.

It’s hard to make out what the low voices behind him are saying to each other, but he can hear different tones in the mix. Some witches sound excited; others sound hesitant.

Harry’s reaction to Ben’s comments, however, is clear as day. He’s shaking with anger, quickly approaching the level of rage Zayn witnessed when Anne turned up at the cottage.

Zayn can’t blame him, either. He’d guessed that Ben would be a dick, as that seems to be his general M.O. But hearing him act as if Harry’s well-being was of no concern to the Coven was shocking. Especially since Harry's sitting right in front of him.

Harry has a speech of his own prepared; after all, they needed someone to give a strong defence of the treaty from the witches’ side. It’s a good speech, too, but something in Zayn wants to hold him back now that it’s time for him to get up. He’s nervous that Harry’s anger, while righteous, could dilute his explanation of why the current system isn’t working.

Harry gives Zayn a determined nod, as if he can hear his thoughts and wants to assuage his worries.

Zayn nods back, knowing that despite his reservations, this is Harry’s decision to make.

Given this unspoken understanding, Harry looks confused when he attempts to rise and Zayn holds a hand to his chest after all, pressing him back into his seat.

Zayn nods his head to draw Harry’s attention to his right, where Anne is edging her way past Gemma and Robin.

Harry’s eyes widen. “What’s she doing?” he hisses.

Zayn shakes his head, none the wiser. Anne hadn’t prepared to speak, at least not to their knowledge.

Harry shoves his notes back into his pocket, now watching his mother approach the podium with rapt attention.

Anne stands in front of the silent audience, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. She opens her mouth, and for one terrible moment, it seems like nothing’s going to come out. She grips the edges of the podium with both hands to steady herself and takes a deep breath. “I’d like to share my point of view, as both a co-writer of the drafted treaty and as Harry’s mother,” she says shakily.

“Anne?” Ben exclaims. He sounds bewildered, maybe even accusatory.

Anne jumps at the unexpected noise. She turns to look at him, possibly communicating an apology with her eyes, but doesn’t say anything out loud.

“Oh my god,” Harry whispers, eyes still glued to his mother. “He had no idea she wrote it. She didn’t tell him.”

“Spicy,” Zayn whispers back. He hears a snort from Harry’s other side and leans forwards to see Gemma, no longer obscured by Anne, laughing. His ears go a little pink knowing that she overheard, but he returns her smile.

Harry ignores them both, watching the drama unfolding before them.

“First of all,” Anne start, “I'd like to address some of the concerns about the treaty. I can assure you that it is _not_ a ruse. It was written with equal input from witches and hunters. It wouldn't substantially limit individual freedoms, either. Under the current version, the only thing we would lose is our ability to abuse magic for morally questionable purposes. It’s also a draft; if we decide to move forward, we will welcome input from anyone who’d like to participate.”

As Anne speaks, she finds her footing. Her voice is gaining volume, no longer timid.

“Now, Ben says we’re not evil. I agree. But many of us aren’t _good_ , either. When I was small, I remember we thought of ourselves as Robin Hoods. We diverted money and power from those who had too much so that we might improve the lives of those less fortunate within our coven. But look at us now! We have everything but continue to seek more, as if we're better than the average person. Having the power to do certain things doesn’t mean that we should.”

Zayn can’t believe what he’s hearing. He wonders if Anne had been secretly preparing this speech for days, in case she needed to use it. Or is she winging it? Her delivery doesn’t sound rehearsed, which only increases the power of her words.

Zayn glances between Harry and Gemma. They must be wondering something similar, because they’re both leaning forwards in their seats, mouths slightly ajar.

Anne scans the witches’ section, challenging any who will make eye contact with her. “If you think what _they_ do is barbaric,” she says, gesturing towards the hunters, “think about the things we’ve done. What _I’ve_ done,” she says, a little quieter. “I threw my only son out of our coven, out of my home, because he didn’t want to use his magic in the dishonest way the Coven required. If we can all sit here and say that that’s something he deserves to be punished for, we’ve lost our way!” Anne turns to gesture towards Trisha and Yaser. “I admire the Maliks for doing what I could not do – for standing up for their son when he wanted to take a different path.”

Trisha smiles at Anne, nodding to spur her on.

She returns Trisha’s nod and takes another deep breath before turning back to face the audience. “Ben suggested that since Harry is no longer an official member of the Coven, his experience should not colour our decision-making. I, however, think that Harry’s experience is central to why we need to consider a treaty. The Coven wanted to carry on using divination in a way that hunters, and I'm sure some of our own, find immoral. When Harry attempted to disrupt the status quo, we sent him out into the world untrained, without protection, to fend for himself. As a result, he was almost murdered. Don’t we want to be better?” she demands.

No one’s brave enough to answer.

“Well, I do,” she says. “I want to be better. I want to be able to sleep at night again, knowing that both of my children are happy and healthy. Therefore, I implore you to vote for this treaty once we have finished hearing public comments. Right now, though, I have an additional request.

“I want to officially reinstate my son’s membership in the Coven. If that isn’t possible, I understand. But like the Maliks, my priority is reuniting my family. If we have to leave the Coven to be together, so be it.” She stares out at the audience, hard. “Is anyone opposed?”

If they are, no one says so. Not even Ben. It’s hard to tell whether the witches are silent because they agree with her or because they’re stunned, too intimidated by her assertiveness to make their feelings known. Zayn hardly cares what they think, though; the outcome is the same. He looks to Harry, the only person whose reaction matters to him.

Harry’s looking at Anne like she's hung the moon, just for him.

Zayn smiles to himself and traces his thumb over Harry’s knuckles. He knows this won’t undo everything that’s happened between them over a lifetime; it won't even undo the last six months. But this is all Harry’s ever wanted from her: unconditional love. It’s a start.

He leans forwards to look past Harry and gauge Robin and Gemma’s reactions. From the shocked looks on their faces, he gathers that this was Anne’s decision alone. Anne’s decision as a mother.

“It seems that we’re all in agreement then. In that case, the last thing I want to do is thank Ben.” Anne glances back at him, biting her lip. “I thank you – the Coven thanks you – for all you’ve provided for us. You have stood by my family in many other ways, and we will not forget your kindnesses. I hope you haven’t found anything I’ve said to be disrespectful. I just want us to use what we’ve been given to help ourselves, maybe even help other people, without also doing harm.”

Anne pauses, as if she’s racking her brain for anything she forgot to say, before bowing her head and thanking everyone for listening. She scurries away from the podium, as if even _she_ can’t believe what she just said.

The silence continues for a long couple of seconds before Trisha and Yaser start clapping. Before long, many of the witches join in, and so do several hunter families.

Ben doesn’t clap. He massages his temples like he’s doing his best to process what just happened.

When Anne returns to her seat next to Harry, Zayn expects the two of them to hug it out, cry, or say _something_ to each other, at the very least. To his simultaneous confusion and amusement, neither of them say anything. They make eye contact for a brief second, during which Harry nods, then turn their eyes back to the podium.

Like he'd just been thinking…it’s a start.

He leans in to whisper in Harry’s ear, rubbing his nose against his cheek affectionately. “You should give your speech now,” he murmurs.

Harry shakes his head with a giggle, squirming away from the tickle of Zayn’s breath. “No, they respect her more than me anyway. That was perfect. If I speak, I might actually hurt more than I help.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, pressing a kiss to the back of Harry’s hand. “It would have been a good speech, though.”

Harry blushes under Zayn’s praise.

They both turn when someone calls out from several rows behind them.

It’s an elderly woman, standing up to better project her voice. “I don’t particularly care about making nice with hunters, but I don’t agree with the way this coven operates either. I understand how others might see us as criminals, which is a shame, because there are many positive uses for our magic. Can’t we train this young man to do something positive, like look out for physical dangers that might befall members of our coven?”

“That’s actually a good idea,” Harry says, nodding his head.

They twist back around when a bald hunter in the front stands up next.

“I agree. I think we need to come to some sort of agreement. My son is due to turn nineteen in six months and this has been tearing our family apart. He doesn’t want to do it and I can’t bring myself to force him.”

As soon as the man sits, another hunter calls out from the back. “But we’re literally called hunters. What are we if we don’t hunt? I say grow a spine or get out!”

Zayn watches the armed guards shift as noises of agreement and dissent once again explode from all corners of the room.

Trisha must see them too, because she rushes back to the podium to quiet everyone. “Anyone who’d like to speak can do so, but we need to do it in an orderly fashion. Please come down and start a queue,” she asks, pointing to a spot next to the podium.

And oh, do people queue. It seems like half of the attendees have something to say. Comments range from short statements of agreement to long diatribes about how society is “failing its young men” by encouraging them to think about their feelings rather than respect the traditions of elders. Trisha meets Zayn’s gaze at this one and they both roll their eyes, smiling.

Zayn’s stomach sinks every time someone expresses disapproval. However, the more people speak, the more people seem to be in support. After at least 45 minutes, the queue finally dries up and Trisha returns to the podium to read the text of the draft treaty. He can’t help but let his mind wander while listening to all the legal terminology. However, when Trisha starts to explain how the vote will work, he sits straight up, stomach fluttering in anticipation. This is it.

Harry feels it too; he slots himself close into Zayn’s side and grips him tightly round the waist. Everything is riding on this.

“Thank you all for a lively but civil discussion,” Trisha says. “Every person 18 years or older, from both the Order and the Coven, was informed of the vote taking place today. As a result, the majority of our members are present from all across the UK. Please remember that we are not voting on whether to adopt the treaty I just read; that was only a draft. We are voting to collaborate on a final version or to reject the idea of a treaty altogether. Mark a check if you’re for a treaty. Mark an X if you’re against a treaty. We will need a majority of witches and a majority of hunters to move forwards.”

She looks out at the audience in front of her, taking a very serious tone. “If we decide to move forwards, this agreement will be the first of its kind internationally. This could set a precedent and influence relationships between hunters and witches worldwide. Please think wisely about your choice.”

Trisha, Yaser, and a couple others from the Council and the High Coven walk through the aisle, handing out slips of paper. It takes _forever_.

Zayn taps his foot impatiently. The longer he waits, the more his stomach twists into knots. _What will happen if we vote no? Will the witches be safe in this room?_

“They should have just let me divine the answer,” Harry says eventually, rolling his eyes.

“Not smart, Harry,” Anne says sharply, marking her slip with a neat check. “I wouldn’t even joke about doing magic in here, lest they change their minds about killing you.”

“I’m just kidding, sheesh,” he grumbles, handing his slip to the witch collecting votes from their row.

The counting takes a while as well. Each member of the Council is paired with a member of the High Coven so that someone from both groups can verify each response. Once a vote is counted, its tallied and placed in one of two piles on a folding table at the front of the room.

Zayn expected this part to be the most tense, but the slow pace makes it anticlimactic. As they wait, conversations spring up all around them. It starts to feel like a social hour rather than the moment that will decide their futures forever. He laughs at all the appropriate times as Robin and Gemma catch Harry up on the antics of their weird neighbours, but he sneaks a glance at the growing piles of votes every minute or so. One pile is growing steadily larger, but it’s impossible to tell which is the pile of checks.

He wills himself to take deep breaths, just like Doniya had taught him all those years ago when his anxiety was so bad that he couldn’t leave the house some days. Wanting a little extra reassurance, he cranes his neck to look for her at the back of the room. She must be keeping an eye on him, because she notices almost immediately and flashes him two thumbs up. He nods at her, feeling grateful to finally have his family back while he weathers such a nerve-wracking situation.

The room automatically hushes when Trisha returns to the podium for the final time. Zayn feels like his breakfast is on its way back up his throat. Her expression is flat, unreadable. That must mean they aren't moving forwards with the treaty…. Surely, she’d look happy if they were. Right?

“I hope I don’t need to remind anyone that no matter the outcome, we will remain civil in this room,” Trisha says, still giving no indication of the results. “That goes for physical _and_ verbal conflict. Anger is understandable, but you’ll need to express it somewhere else. That being said…” Trisha takes a deep breath…and widens her mouth into an unmistakable grin. “I’m happy to say that we will be moving forwards with a treaty. Hunters voted 67 to 33% and witches voted 72 to 28%! Please come down and give me your name if you’d like to be involved in writing the final version of the treaty.”

For the third time today, loud voices engulf the room. Only this time, people aren’t angry. Most are hugging, joyous. Others, including Zayn, remain motionless.

He’s completely stunned, hardly daring to believe his ears. How is it possible that he wasn’t the only one? How could nearly three-quarters of the people in this room, hunters and witches alike, have voted for him and Harry to have their freedom? Well, that’s self-centred, he supposes; it might be more accurate to say that most people voted to bring the Order and the Coven into the 21st century. Either way, it’s beyond Zayn’s comprehension. He remains seated, staring blankly at his mum.

“What are you doing?” Harry yells, grasping Zayn’s hand and pulling him into a standing position. “We fucking did it!” he laughs.

Zayn allows himself to be pulled into a hug and presses his face into Harry’s neck, inhaling his vanilla and tobacco cologne. It finally starts to sink in – this is really happening. He pulls away from Harry, but only far enough so that he can lean back in to kiss his smile. They laugh into each other’s mouths, hands on each other’s faces, in each other’s hair. Zayn doesn’t even care if his parents see. No one’s going to hurt either of them. They no longer have to hide out hours from home, using each other as life preservers, grasping onto each other so hard they leave bruises.

 _We really did it_.

After their embrace finally ends, Zayn’s filled with warmth watching Harry hug Anne, Gemma, and Robin. Anne laughs, wiping tears from her eyes, and extends her arms to Zayn too. Then he accidentally makes eye contact with Gemma, meaning he also has to hug her awkwardly and shake Robin’s hand.

As the noise level dies down somewhat, Zayn notices some people from both sides leaving, angry looks on their faces. Ben doesn’t exactly look happy, but Simon looks like he’s going to burst a blood vessel. Zayn can't wipe the grin off his face.

Trisha waves to get everyone’s attention over the cacophony. “If that’s all, we will officially close out this meeting.”

She’s opening her mouth to do just that, when a hunter stands up in a middle row of seats. Zayn doesn’t recognize her.

“I have another proposal I’d like to put to a vote, actually,” she says.

“Ugh,” Harry groans, settling back into his seat. “I can’t sit through all that again.”

“Go on,” Trisha encourages her, curiosity evident in her voice.

“I’d like to propose voting on a new Council Leader.”

Many hunters nod, and several actually voice their agreement.

The woman continues. “It’s clear that Simon has led the Order in the opposite direction that most want. A strong majority worried about what would happen to their families when their children came of age. But we felt we had to hide and fret in secret, instead of coming to the Council Leader to openly discuss our concerns.”

Trisha stumbles over her words, clearly taken aback. “Well…erm, I’m not sure if we’re prepared to…to do that today. We would have to take a vote on ending Simon’s term early, put forward nominees, and then vote on those nominees….” She trails off, shifting uncomfortably, knowing that Simon is sitting behind her.

“I can solve one of those problems,” the woman smiles. “I nominate you.”

“Me?” Trisha exclaims, hand flying to her chest.

“If it weren’t for your willingness to listen to these boys,” the woman says, gesturing to Harry and Zayn, “we wouldn’t be here right now. We need someone compassionate to lead us, someone who will listen to what the members of our Order have to say.”

Zayn and Harry stare at each other in awe. Zayn has barely processed the vote, and now his own mum is getting nominated for Council Leader? It’s totally unexpected; the woman making the nomination isn’t even a friend of the Maliks’.

“I’ll solve another problem for you,” an icy voice booms from behind Trisha, startling her.

She turns all the way round, facing Simon directly for the first time today.

“I’m no longer interested in being Council Leader,” he says. “Today, this Order has gone back on everything it stands for. I have no desire to head an organization whose beliefs I fundamentally oppose.” He sweeps past Trisha and heads up the aisle towards the exit.

Zayn doesn’t shrink away from his presence this time. Simon holds no power over him, or Harry, or any of them.

Every head in the room turns to watch Simon leave. He slams the door of the lecture hall shut, causing many to jump at the sound.

“Well…” the woman says, looking around. “It would appear that we have a vacancy. Are there any other nominees?”

Silence presides as everyone waits for someone else to say something.

Eventually, Yaser stands up. “I have no one else to nominate, but I would like to second Trisha’s nomination,” he says, beaming.

“I third it,” comes a voice from the back, another hunter Zayn doesn’t recognize.

Before Zayn can stop him, Harry jumps to his feet and adds, “And I fourth it!”

“Harry!” Zayn says sharply, tugging on him to sit back down.

Luckily, the rest of the room seems just as giddy as Harry. People on both sides of the aisle laugh, Trisha included.

“Thank you for your vote of confidence, darling.” She winks.

Zayn turns to Harry, finding the biggest grin on his face. He looks so content, so relaxed. Zayn can hardly blame him for having a little fun. He shakes his head at Harry’s outspokenness but smiles back and slides his hand around his waist.

As the second vote of the day is counted, and Zayn watches his mother get sworn in as the new Council Leader, he reflects on everything that’s changed in the last few weeks.

He’d hoped that when the day of his initiation hunt finally came, he would feel excited. And if he couldn’t manage excitement, he assumed that, at the very least, he would play along. Pretend to be something he wasn’t. That is, after all, what he thought he'd have to do if he wanted to make his family proud.

It hadn't gone that way at all, of course. He'd seen every move he made as an expression of his own weakness. Yet in the end, that cowardice had provided more than he could have asked for: a reunion with his family, a revolution within the Order, and a boyfriend by his side. Actually, he corrects himself, it wasn’t cowardice. It was bravery. At least that’s what Harry says.

He leans his head on Harry’s shoulder and closes his eyes, savouring this moment. Only now, as the possibilities for this new life open ahead of him, does his stomach flip with the excitement he'd been waiting for.


End file.
